Titus.
Hear me, grave fathers, noble Tribunes stay,
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept:
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watcht,
And for these bitter tears, which you now see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty sons I never wept,

Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [Andronicus lieth down, and the judges pass by him.
For these, these, Tribunes, in the dust I write
My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad tears:
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite,
My sons sweet blood will make it shame and blush:
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, [Exeunt.
That shall distil from these two ancient ruins,
Than youthful April shall with all her showers;
In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still,
In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons blood. Enter Lucius with his sword drawn.
Oh reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me say (that never wept before)
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc.
Oh noble father, you lament in vain,
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

Tit.
Ah Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead—
Grave Tribunes, once more I intreat of you—

Luc.
My gracious lord, no Tribune hears you speak.

Tit.
Why 'tis no matter, man; if they did hear,
They would not mark me: or if they did mark,
They would not pity me.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they're better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale;
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet

Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to these.
A stone is as soft wax, Tribunes more hard than stones:
A stone is silent, and offendeth not,
And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?

Luc.
To rescue my two brothers from their death,
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit.
O happy man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tygers?
Tygers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

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