Mar.
Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep,
Or if not so, thy noble heart to break:
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.

Tit.
Will it consume me? let me see it then.

Mar.
This was thy daughter.

Tit.
Why, Marcus, so she is.

Luc.
Ah me, this object kills me.

Tit.
Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her;
Speak my Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?

My grief was at the heighth before thou cam'st,
And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds:
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain:
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life:
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have serv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other:
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands,
For hands to do Rome service are but vain.

Luc.
Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?

Mar.
O that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear.

Luc.
Oh say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

Mar.
Oh thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide her self, as doth the deer
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.

Tit.
It was my deer, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:
&plquo;For now I stand, as one upon a rock,
&plquo;Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
&plquo;Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
&plquo;Expecting ever when some envious surge
&plquo;Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone:
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man,
And here my brother weeping at my woes.
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul—

Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What shall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look Marcus, ah son Lucius look on her:
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew,
Upon a gather'd lilly almost wither'd.

Mar.
Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband.
Perchance because she knows them innocent.

Tit.
If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed,
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,
Or make some signs how I may do thee ease:
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou and I sit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are stain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miery slime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,
'Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? let us that have our tongues
Plot some devise of further misery,
To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc.
Sweet father cease your tears, for at your grief
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Mar.
Patience, dear neice, good Titus dry thine eyes.

Tit.
Ah Marcus, Marcus, brother, well I wot
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.

Luc.
Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

Tit.
Mark, Marcus, mark, I understand her signs,
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee.
His napkin with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
Oh what a sympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as limbo is from bliss.

Previous section

Next section