Titus Andronicus

Enter Titus Andronicus and his three sonnes, making a noyse with hounds and hornes, and Marcus.

  Tit. The hunt is vp, the morne is bright and gray,The fields are fragrant, and the Woods are greene,Vncouple heere, and let vs make a bay,And wake the Emperour, and his louely Bride,And rouze the Prince, and ring a hunters peale,That all the Court may eccho with the noyse.Sonnes let it be your charge, as it is ours,To attend the Emperours person carefully:I haue bene troubled in my sleepe this night,But dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd.

Winde Hornes.

Heere a cry of houndes, and winde hornes in a peale, then Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lauinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and their Attendants.

  Ti. Many good morrowes to your Maiestie,Madam to you as many and as good.I promised your Grace, a Hunters peale   Satur. And you haue rung it lustily my Lords,Somewhat to earely for new married Ladies   Bass. Lauinia, how say you?  Laui. I say no:I haue bene awake two houres and more   Satur. Come on then, horse and Chariots let vs haue,And to our sport: Madam, now shall ye see,Our Romaine hunting   Mar. I haue dogges my Lord,Will rouze the proudest Panther in the Chase,And clime the highest Promontary top   Tit. And I haue horse will follow where the gameMakes way, and runnes likes Swallowes ore the plaine  Deme. Chiron we hunt not we, with Horse nor HoundBut hope to plucke a dainty Doe to ground.

Exeunt.

Enter Aaron alone.

  Aron. He that had wit, would thinke that I had none,To bury so much Gold vnder a Tree,And neuer after to inherit it.Let him that thinks of me so abiectly,Know that this Gold must coine a Stratageme,Which cunningly effected, will begetA very excellent peece of villany;And so repose sweet Gold for their vnrest,That haue their Almes out of the Empresse Chest.

Enter Tamora to the Moore.

  Tamo. My louely Aaron,Wherefore look'st thou sad,When euery thing doth make a Gleefull boast?The Birds chaunt melody on euery bush,The Snake lies rolled in the chearefull Sunne,The greene leaues quiuer, with the cooling winde,And make a cheker'd shadow on the ground:Vnder their sweete shade, Aaron let vs sit,And whil'st the babling Eccho mock's the Hounds,Replying shrilly to the well tun'd-Hornes,As if a double hunt were heard at once,Let vs sit downe, and marke their yelping noyse:And after conflict, such as was suppos'd.The wandring Prince and Dido once enioy'd,When with a happy storme they were surpris'd,And Curtain'd with a Counsaile-keeping Caue,We may each wreathed in the others armes,(Our pastimes done) possesse a Golden slumber,Whiles Hounds and Hornes, and sweet Melodious BirdsBe vnto vs, as is a Nurses SongOf Lullabie, to bring her Babe asleepe   Aron. Madame,Though Venus gouerne your desires,Saturne is Dominator ouer mine:What signifies my deadly standing eye,My silence, and my Cloudy Melancholie,My fleece of Woolly haire, that now vncurles,Euen as an Adder when she doth vnrowleTo do some fatall execution?No Madam, these are no Veneriall signes,Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,Blood, and reuenge, are Hammering in my head.Harke Tamora, the Empresse of my Soule,Which neuer hopes more heauen, then rests in thee,This is the day of Doome for Bassianus;His Philomel must loose her tongue to day,Thy Sonnes make Pillage of her Chastity,And wash their hands in Bassianus blood.Seest thou this Letter, take it vp I pray thee,And giue the King this fatall plotted Scrowle,Now question me no more, we are espied,Heere comes a parcell of our hopefull Booty,Which dreads not yet their liues destruction.

Enter Bassianus and Lauinia.

  Tamo. Ah my sweet Moore:Sweeter to me then life   Aron. No more great Empresse, Bassianus comes,Be crosse with him, and Ile goe fetch thy SonnesTo backe thy quarrell what so ere they be   Bassi. Whom haue we heere?Romes Royall Empresse,Vnfurnisht of our well beseeming troope?Or is it Dian habited like her,Who hath abandoned her holy Groues,To see the generall Hunting in this Forrest?  Tamo. Sawcie controuler of our priuate steps:Had I the power, that some say Dian had,Thy Temples should be planted presently.With Hornes, as was Acteons, and the HoundsShould driue vpon his new transformed limbes,Vnmannerly Intruder as thou art   Laui. Vnder your patience gentle Empresse,'Tis thought you haue a goodly gift in Horning,And to be doubted, that your Moore and youAre singled forth to try experiments:Ioue sheild your husband from his Hounds to day,'Tis pitty they should take him for a Stag   Bassi. Beleeue me Queene, your swarth Cymerion,Doth make your Honour of his bodies Hue,Spotted, detested, and abhominable.Why are you sequestred from all your traine?Dismounted from your Snow-white goodly Steed,And wandred hither to an obscure plot,Accompanied with a barbarous Moore,If foule desire had not conducted you?  Laui. And being intercepted in your sport,Great reason that my Noble Lord, be ratedFor Saucinesse, I pray you let vs hence,And let her ioy her Rauen coloured loue,This valley fits the purpose passing wellBassi. The King my Brother shall haue notice of this   Laui. I, for these slips haue made him noted long,Good King, to be so mightily abused   Tamora. Why I haue patience to endure all this?

Enter Chiron and Demetrius.

  Dem. How now deere SoueraigneAnd our gracious Mother,Why doth your Highnes looke so pale and wan?  Tamo. Haue I not reason thinke you to looke pale.These two haue tic'd me hither to this place,A barren, detested vale you see it is.The Trees though Sommer, yet forlorne and leane,Ore-come with Mosse, and balefull Misselto.Heere neuer shines the Sunne, heere nothing breeds,Vnlesse the nightly Owle, or fatall Rauen:And when they shew'd me this abhorred pit,They told me heere at dead time of the night,A thousand Fiends, a thousand hissing Snakes,Ten thousand swelling Toades, as many Vrchins,Would make such fearefull and confused cries,As any mortall body hearing it,Should straite fall mad, or else die suddenly.No sooner had they told this hellish tale,But strait they told me they would binde me heere,Vnto the body of a dismall yew,And leaue me to this miserable death.And then they call'd me foule Adulteresse,Lasciuious Goth, and all the bitterest tearmesThat euer eare did heare to such effect.And had you not by wondrous fortune come,This vengeance on me had they executed:Reuenge it, as you loue your Mothers life,Or be ye not henceforth cal'd my ChildrenDem. This is a witnesse that I am thy Sonne.stab him.  Chi. And this for me,Strook home to shew my strength   Laui. I come Semeramis, nay Barbarous Tamora.For no name fits thy nature but thy owne   Tam. Giue me thy poyniard, you shal know my boyesYour Mothers hand shall right your Mothers wrong   Deme. Stay Madam heere is more belongs to her,First thrash the Corne, then after burne the straw:This Minion stood vpon her chastity,Vpon her Nuptiall vow, her loyaltie.And with that painted hope, braues your Mightinesse,And shall she carry this vnto her graue?  Chi. And if she doe,I would I were an Eunuch,Drag hence her husband to some secret hole,And make his dead Trunke-Pillow to our lust   Tamo. But when ye haue the hony we desire,Let not this Waspe out-liue vs both to sting   Chir. I warrant you Madam we will make that sure:Come Mistris, now perforce we will enioy,That nice-preserued honesty of yoursLaui. Oh Tamora, thou bear'st a woman faceTamo. I will not heare her speake, away with herLaui. Sweet Lords intreat her heare me but a word   Demet. Listen faire Madam, let it be your gloryTo see her teares, but be your hart to them,As vnrelenting flint to drops of raine   Laui. When did the Tigers young-ones teach the dam?O doe not learne her wrath, she taught it thee,The milke thou suck'st from her did turne to Marble,Euen at thy Teat thou had'st thy Tyranny,Yet euery Mother breeds not Sonnes alike,Do thou intreat her shew a woman pitty   Chiro. What,Would'st thou haue me proue my selfe a bastard?  Laui. 'Tis true,The Rauen doth not hatch a Larke,Yet haue I heard, Oh could I finde it now,The Lion mou'd with pitty, did indureTo haue his Princely pawes par'd all away.Some say, that Rauens foster forlorne children,The whil'st their owne birds famish in their nests:Oh be to me though thy hard hart say no,Nothing so kind but something pittifullTamo. I know not what it meanes, away with her   Lauin. Oh let me teach thee for my Fathers sake,That gaue thee life when well he might haue slaine thee:Be not obdurate, open thy deafe eares   Tamo. Had'st thou in person nere offended me.Euen for his sake am I pittilesse:Remember Boyes I powr'd forth teares in vaine,To saue your brother from the sacrifice,But fierce Andronicus would not relent,Therefore away with her, and vse her as you will,The worse to her, the better lou'd of me   Laui. Oh Tamora,Be call'd a gentle Queene,And with thine owne hands kill me in this place,For 'tis not life that I haue beg'd so long,Poore I was slaine, when Bassianus dy'd   Tam. What beg'st thou then? fond woman let me go?  Laui. 'Tis present death I beg, and one thing more,That womanhood denies my tongue to tell:Oh keepe me from their worse then killing lust,And tumble me into some loathsome pit,Where neuer mans eye may behold my body,Doe this, and be a charitable murderer   Tam. So should I rob my sweet Sonnes of their fee,No let them satisfie their lust on thee   Deme. Away,For thou hast staid vs heere too long   Lauinia. No Grace,No womanhood? Ah beastly creature,The blot and enemy to our generall name,Confusion fall-  Chi. Nay then Ile stop your mouthBring thou her husband,This is the Hole where Aaron bid vs hide him   Tam. Farewell my Sonnes, see that you make her sure,Nere let my heart know merry cheere indeed,Till all the Andronici be made away:Now will I hence to seeke my louely Moore,And let my spleenefull Sonnes this Trull defloure.

Enter.

Enter Aaron with two of Titus Sonnes.

  Aron. Come on my Lords, the better foote before,Straight will I bring you to the lothsome pit,Where I espied the Panther fast asleepeQuin. My sight is very dull what ere it bodes   Marti. And mine I promise you, were it not for shame,Well could I leaue our sport to sleepe a while   Quin. What art thou fallen?What subtile Hole is this,Whose mouth is couered with Rude growing Briers,Vpon whose leaues are drops of new-shed-blood,As fresh as mornings dew distil'd on flowers,A very fatall place it seemes to me:Speake Brother hast thou hurt thee with the fall?  Martius. Oh Brother,With the dismal'st obiectThat euer eye with sight made heart lament   Aron. Now will I fetch the King to finde them heere,That he thereby may haue a likely gesse,How these were they that made away his Brother.

Exit Aaron.

  Marti. Why dost not comfort me and helpe me out,From this vnhallow'd and blood-stained Hole?  Quintus. I am surprised with an vncouth feare,A chilling sweat ore-runs my trembling ioynts,My heart suspects more then mine eie can see   Marti. To proue thou hast a true diuining heart,  Aaron and thou looke downe into this den,And see a fearefull sight of blood and death   Quintus. Aaron is gone,And my compassionate heartWill not permit mine eyes once to beholdThe thing whereat it trembles by surmise:Oh tell me how it is, for nere till nowWas I a child to feare I know not what   Marti. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed heere,All on a heape like to the slaughtred Lambe,In this detested, darke, blood-drinking pit   Quin. If it be darke, how doost thou know 'tis he?  Mart. Vpon his bloody finger he doth weareA precious Ring, that lightens all the Hole:Which like a Taper in some Monument,Doth shine vpon the dead mans earthly cheekes,And shewes the ragged intrailes of the pit:So pale did shine the Moone on Piramus,When he by night lay bath'd in Maiden blood:O Brother helpe me with thy fainting hand.If feare hath made thee faint, as mee it hath,Out of this fell deuouring receptacle,As hatefull as Ocitus mistie mouth   Quint. Reach me thy hand, that I may helpe thee out,Or wanting strength to doe thee so much good,I may be pluckt into the swallowing wombe,Of this deepe pit, poore Bassianus graue:I haue no strength to plucke thee to the brinkeMartius. Nor I no strength to clime without thy help   Quin. Thy hand once more, I will not loose againe,Till thou art heere aloft, or I below,Thou can'st not come to me, I come to thee.Both fall in.

Enter the Emperour, Aaron the Moore.

  Satur. Along with me, Ile see what hole is heere,And what he is that now is leapt into it.Say, who art thou that lately did'st descend,Into this gaping hollow of the earth?  Marti. The vnhappie sonne of old Andronicus,Brought hither in a most vnluckie houre,To finde thy brother Bassianus dead   Satur. My brother dead? I know thou dost but iest,He and his Lady both are at the Lodge,Vpon the North-side of this pleasant Chase,'Tis not an houre since I left him there   Marti. We know not where you left him all aliue,But out alas, heere haue we found him dead.

Enter Tamora, Andronicus, and Lucius.

  Tamo. Where is my Lord the King?  King. Heere Tamora, though grieu'd with killing griefe   Tam. Where is thy brother Bassianus?  King. Now to the bottome dost thou search my wound,Poore Bassianus heere lies murthered   Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatall writ,The complot of this timelesse Tragedie,And wonder greatly that mans face can fold,In pleasing smiles such murderous Tyrannie.

She giueth Saturnine a Letter.

Saturninus reads the Letter. And if we misse to meete himhansomely,Sweet huntsman, Bassianus 'tis we meane,Doe thou so much as dig the graue for him,Thou know'st our meaning, looke for thy rewardAmong the Nettles at the Elder tree:Which ouer-shades the mouth of that same pit:Where we decreed to bury BassianussDoe this and purchase vs thy lasting friends   King. Oh Tamora, was euer heard the like?This is the pit, and this the Elder tree,Looke sirs, if you can finde the huntsman out,That should haue murthered Bassianus heereAron. My gracious Lord heere is the bag of Gold   King. Two of thy whelpes, fell Curs of bloody kindHaue heere bereft my brother of his life:Sirs drag them from the pit vnto the prison,There let them bide vntill we haue deuis'dSome neuer heard-of tortering paine for them   Tamo. What are they in this pit,Oh wondrous thing!How easily murder is discouered?  Tit. High Emperour, vpon my feeble knee,I beg this boone, with teares, not lightly shed,That this fell fault of my accursed Sonnes,Accursed, if the faults be prou'd in them   King. If it be prou'd? you see it is apparant,Who found this Letter, Tamora was it you?  Tamora. Andronicus himselfe did take it vp   Tit. I did my Lord,Yet let me be their baile,For by my Fathers reuerent Tombe I vowThey shall be ready at your Highnes will,To answere their suspition with their liues   King. Thou shalt not baile them, see thou follow me:Some bring the murthered body, some the murtherers,Let them not speake a word, the guilt is plaine,For by my soule, were there worse end then death,That end vpon them should be executed   Tamo. Andronicus I will entreat the King,Feare not thy Sonnes, they shall do well enough   Tit. Come Lucius come,Stay not to talke with them.

Exeunt.

Enter the Empresse Sonnes, with Lauinia, her hands cut off and her tongue cut out, and rauisht.

  Deme. So now goe tell and if thy tongue can speake,Who t'was that cut thy tongue and rauisht thee   Chi. Write downe thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,And if thy stumpes will let thee play the ScribeDem. See how with signes and tokens she can scowle   Chi. Goe home,Call for sweet water, wash thy hands   Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash.And so let's leaue her to her silent walkesChi. And t'were my cause, I should goe hang my selfeDem. If thou had'st hands to helpe thee knit the cord.

Exeunt.

Winde Hornes.

Enter Marcus from hunting, to Lauinia.

Who is this, my Neece that flies away so fast?Cosen a word, where is your husband?If I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me;If I doe wake, some Planet strike me downe,That I may slumber in eternall sleepe.Speake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle handsHath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bareOf her two branches, those sweet OrnamentsWhose circkling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleep inAnd might not gaine so great a happinesAs halfe thy Loue: Why doost not speake to me?Alas, a Crimson riuer of warme blood,Like to a bubling fountaine stir'd with winde,Doth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips,Comming and going with thy hony breath.But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee,And least thou should'st detect them, cut thy tongue.Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame:And notwithstanding all this losse of blood,As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts,Yet doe thy cheekes looke red as Titans face,Blushing to be encountred with a Cloud,Shall I speake for thee? shall I say 'tis so?Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beastThat I might raile at him to ease my mind.Sorrow concealed, like an Ouen stopt.Doth burne the hart to Cinders where it is.Faire Philomela she but lost her tongue,And in a tedious Sampler sowed her minde.But louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee,A craftier Tereus hast thou met withall,And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,That could haue better sowed then Philomel.Oh had the monster seene those Lilly hands,Tremble like Aspen leaues vpon a Lute,And make the silken strings delight to kisse them,He would not then haue toucht them for his life.Or had he heard the heauenly Harmony,Which that sweet tongue hath made:He would haue dropt his knife and fell asleepe,As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete.Come, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde,For such a sight will blinde a fathers eye.One houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades,What, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes?Doe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee:Oh could our mourning ease thy misery.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

Enter the Iudges and Senatours with Titus two sonnes bound, passing on the Stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before pleading.

  Ti. Heare me graue fathers, noble Tribunes stay,For pitty of mine age, whose youth was spentIn dangerous warres, whilst you securely slept:For all my blood in Romes great quarrell shed,For all the frosty nights that I haue watcht,And for these bitter teares, which now you see,Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes,Be pittifull to my condemned Sonnes,Whose soules is not corrupted as 'tis thought:For two and twenty sonnes I neuer wept,Because they died in honours lofty bed.Andronicus lyeth downe, and the Iudges passe by him.For these, Tribunes, in the dust I writeMy harts deepe languor, and my soules sad teares:Let my teares stanch the earths drie appetite.My sonnes sweet blood, will make it shame and blush:O earth! I will be friend thee more with raine

Exeunt.

That shall distill from these two ancient ruines,Then youthfull Aprill shall with all his showresIn summers drought: Ile drop vpon thee still,In Winter with warme teares Ile melt the snow,And keepe eternall spring time on thy face,So thou refuse to drinke my deare sonnes blood.Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawne.Oh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men,Vnbinde my sonnes, reuerse the doome of death,And let me say (that neuer wept before)My teares are now preualing Oratours   Lu. Oh noble father, you lament in vaine,The Tribunes heare not, no man is by,And you recount your sorrowes to a stone   Ti. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead,Graue Tribunes, once more I intreat of youLu. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you speake   Ti. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heareThey would not marke me: oh if they did heareThey would not pitty me.Therefore I tell my sorrowes bootles to the stones.Who though they cannot answere my distresse,Yet in some sort they are better then the Tribunes,For that they will not intercept my tale;When I doe weepe, they humbly at my feeteReceiue my teares, and seeme to weepe with me,And were they but attired in graue weedes,Rome could afford no Tribune like to these.A stone is as soft waxe,Tribunes more hard then stones:A stone is silent, and offendeth not,And Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death.But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawne?  Lu. To rescue my two brothers from their death,For which attempt the Iudges haue pronounc'stMy euerlasting doome of banishment   Ti. O happy man, they haue befriended thee:Why foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceiueThat Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers?Tigers must pray, and Rome affords no preyBut me and mine: how happy art thou then,From these deuourers to be banished?But who comes with our brother Marcus heere?

Enter Marcus and Lauinia.

  Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weepe,Or if not so, thy noble heart to breake:I bring consuming sorrow to thine ageTi. Will it consume me? Let me see it thenMar. This was thy daughterTi. Why Marcus so she isLuc. Aye me this obiect kils me   Ti. Faint-harted boy, arise and looke vpon her,Speake Lauinia, what accursed handHath made thee handlesse in thy Fathers sight?What foole hath added water to the Sea?Or brought a faggot to bright burning Troy?My griefe was at the height before thou cam'st,And now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds:Giue me a sword, Ile chop off my hands too,For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine:And they haue nur'st this woe,In feeding life:In bootelesse prayer haue they bene held vp,And they haue seru'd me to effectlesse vse.Now all the seruice I require of them,Is that the one will helpe to cut the other:'Tis well Lauinia, that thou hast no hands,For hands to do Rome seruice, is but vaine   Luci. Speake gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?  Mar. O that delightfull engine of her thoughts,That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence,Is torne from forth that pretty hollow cage,Where like a sweet mellodius bird it sung,Sweet varied notes inchanting euery eare   Luci. Oh say thou for her,Who hath done this deed?  Marc. Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke,Seeking to hide herselfe as doth the DeareThat hath receiude some vnrecuring wound   Tit. It was my Deare,And he that wounded her,Hath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead:For now I stand as one vpon a Rocke,Inuiron'd with a wildernesse of Sea.Who markes the waxing tide,Grow waue by waue,Expecting euer when some enuious surge,Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.This way to death my wretched sonnes are gone:Heere stands my other sonne, a banisht man,And heere my brother weeping at my woes.But that which giues my soule the greatest spurne,Is deere Lauinia, deerer then my soule.Had I but seene thy picture in this plight,It would haue madded me. What shall I doe?Now I behold thy liuely body so?Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares,Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee:Thy husband he is dead, and for his deathThy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.Looke Marcus, ah sonne Lucius looke on her:When I did name her brothers, then fresh tearesStood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew,Vpon a gathred Lillie almost withered   Mar. Perchance she weepes because they kil'd herhusband,Perchance because she knowes him innocent   Ti. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull,Because the law hath tane reuenge on them.No, no, they would not doe so foule a deede,Witnes the sorrow that their sister makes.Gentle Lauinia let me kisse thy lips,Or make some signes how I may do thee ease:Shall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius,And thou and I sit round about some Fountaine,Looking all downewards to behold our cheekesHow they are stain'd in meadowes, yet not dryWith miery slime left on them by a flood:And in the Fountaine shall we gaze so long,Till the fresh taste be taken from that cleerenes,And made a brine pit with our bitter teares?Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumbe shewesPasse the remainder of our hatefull dayes?What shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tonguesPlot some deuise of further miseriesTo make vs wondred at in time to come   Lu. Sweet Father cease your teares, for at your griefeSee how my wretched sister sobs and weeps   Mar. Patience deere Neece, good Titus drie thineeyes   Ti. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot,Thy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine,For thou poore man hast drown'd it with thine owneLu. Ah my Lauinia I will wipe thy cheekes   Ti. Marke Marcus marke, I vnderstand her signes,Had she a tongue to speake, now would she sayThat to her brother which I said to thee.His Napkin with her true teares all bewet,Can do no seruice on her sorrowfull cheekes.Oh what a simpathy of woe is this!As farre from helpe as Limbo is from blisse,

Enter Aron the Moore alone.

  Moore. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperour,Sends thee this word, that if thou loue thy sonnes,Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy selfe old Titus,Or any one of you, chop off your hand,And send it to the King: he for the same,Will send thee hither both thy sonnes aliue,And that shall be the ransome for their fault   Ti. Oh gracious Emperour, oh gentle Aaron.Did euer Rauen sing so like a Larke,That giues sweet tydings of the Sunnes vprise?With all my heart, Ile send the Emperour my hand,Good Aron wilt thou help to chop it off?  Lu. Stay Father, for that noble hand of thine,That hath throwne downe so many enemies,Shall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne,My youth can better spare my blood then you,And therfore mine shall saue my brothers liues   Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,And rear'd aloft the bloody Battleaxe,Writing destruction on the enemies Castle?Oh none of both but are of high desert:My hand hath bin but idle, let it serueTo ransome my two nephewes from their death,Then haue I kept it to a worthy end   Moore. Nay come agree, whose hand shall goe alongFor feare they die before their pardon comeMar. My hand shall goeLu. By heauen it shall not goe   Ti. Sirs striue no more, such withered hearbs as theseAre meete for plucking vp, and therefore mine   Lu. Sweet Father, if I shall be thought thy sonne,Let me redeeme my brothers both from death   Mar. And for our fathers sake, and mothers care,Now let me shew a brothers loue to theeTi. Agree betweene you, I will spare my handLu. Then Ile goe fetch an AxeMar. But I will vse the Axe.

Exeunt.