Luc.
Farewel Andronicus, my noble father,
The woful'st man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Farewel, proud Rome; 'till Lucius come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life;
Farewel Lavinia, my noble sister,
O would thou wert as thou tofore hast been,
But now nor Lucins nor Lavinia lives,
But in oblivion and hateful griefs;
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and his Empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queen.
Now will I to the Goths and raise a power,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. [Exit Lucius. ^noteSCENE VI.

† [Footnote: A Banquet. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the Boy.

Tit.
So, so, now sit, and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy neice and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our ten-fold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast,
And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.
Thou map of wo, that thus dost talk in signs,
When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still;
Wound it with ^{a note}sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that sink, and soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

Mar.
Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit.
How now! has sorrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I;
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands,—
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
O handle not the theam, no talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how frantickly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands?
Come, let's fall to, and gentle girl eat this.
Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interperet all her martyr'd signs,
She says, she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complaint—O I will learn thy thought.
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,

But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

Boy.
Good grandsire leave these bitter deep laments,
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar.
Alas the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.

Tit.
Peace tender sapling, thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

Mar.
At that that I have kill'd, my lord, a fly.

Tit.
Out on thee, murderer; thou kill'st my heart,
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother? get thee gone,
I see thou art not for my company.

Mar.
Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

&plquo;Tit.
&plquo;But?—how if that fly had a father and mother?
&plquo;How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
&plquo;And buz lamenting doings in the air?
&plquo;Poor harmless fly,
&plquo;That with his pretty buzzing melody,
&plquo;Came here to make us merry,
&plquo;And thou hast kill'd him.

Mar.
Pardon me Sir, it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the Empress' Moor, therefore I kill'd him.

Tit.
O, O, O,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed;
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering my self, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thy self, and that's for Tamora:

Yet still I think we are not brought so low,
But that between us we can kill a fly,
That comes in likeness of a cole-black Moor.

Mar.
Alas poor man, grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.
Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me,
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.
Come, boy, and go with me, thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read when mine begins to dazzle. [Exeunt.

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