Aar.
He, that had wit, would think, that I had none,
To bury so much gold under a tree;
^{5 note}And never after to inherit it.
Let him, that thinks of me so abjectly,
Know, that this gold must coin a stratagem;
Which, cunningly effected, will beget
A very excellent piece of villany;
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest,
That have their alms out of the Empress' chest. Enter Tamora.

Tam.
My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad,
When every thing doth make a gleeful boast?
&plquo;The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
&plquo;The snake lies rolled in the chearful sun,
&plquo;The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,

&plquo;And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground:
&plquo;Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
&plquo;And whilst the babling Echo mocks the hounds,&prquo;
Replying shrilly to the well-tun'd horns,
As if a double Hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down and mark their yelling noise:
And after conflict, such as was suppos'd
The wandring Prince and Dido once enjoy'd,
When with a happy storm they were surpriz'd,
And curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave;
We may, each wreathed in the other's arms,
(Our pastimes done) possess a golden slumber;
Whilst hounds and horns, and sweet melodious birds
Be unto us, as is a nurse's song
Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.

Aar.
Madam, though Venus govern your desires,
Saturn is dominator over mine:
&wlquo;What signifies my deadly-standing eye,
&wlquo;My silence, and my cloudy melancholy,
&wlquo;My fleece of woolly hair, that now uncurls,
&wlquo;Even as an adder, when she doth unrowl
&wlquo;To do some fatal execution?&wrquo;
No, Madam, these are no venereal signs;
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand;
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
Hark, Tamora, (the Empress of my soul,
Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee)
This is the day of doom for Bassianus;
His Philomel must lose her tongue to day;
Thy sons make pillage of her chastity,
And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood.
Seest thou this letter, take it up, I pray thee,
And give the King this fatal-plotted scrowl;
Now question me no more, we are espied;
Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,
Which dread not yet their lives' destruction.

Tam.
Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life.

Aar.
No more, great Empress, Bassianus comes;
Be cross with him, and I'll go fetch thy sons
To back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be. [Exit.

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