Titus Andronicus

  Ti. Come hither Aaron, Ile deceiue them both,Lend me thy hand, and I will giue thee mine,  Moore. If that be cal'd deceit, I will be honest,And neuer whil'st I liue deceiue men so:But Ile deceiue you in another sort,And that you'l say ere halfe an houre passe.He cuts off Titus hand.

Enter Lucius and Marcus againe.

  Ti. Now stay your strife, what shall be, is dispatcht:Good Aron giue his Maiestie my hand,Tell him, it was a hand that warded himFrom thousand dangers: bid him bury it:More hath it merited: That let it haue.As for my sonnes, say I account of them,As iewels purchast at an easie price,And yet deere too, because I bought mine owne   Aron. I goe Andronicus, and for thy hand,Looke by and by to haue thy sonnes with thee:Their heads I meane: Oh how this villanyDoth fat me with the very thoughts of it.Let fooles doe good, and faire men call for grace,Aron will haue his soule blacke like his face.

Enter.

  Ti. O heere I lift this one hand vp to heauen,And bow this feeble ruine to the earth,If any power pitties wretched teares,To that I call: what wilt thou kneele with me?Doe then deare heart, for heauen shall heare our prayers,Or with our sighs weele breath the welkin dimme,And staine the Sun with fogge as somtime cloudes,When they do hug him in their melting bosomes   Mar. Oh brother speake with possibilities,And do not breake into these deepe extreames   Ti. Is not my sorrow deepe, hauing no bottome?Then be my passions bottomlesse with themMar. But yet let reason gouerne thy lament   Titus. If there were reason for these miseries,Then into limits could I binde my woes:When heauen doth weepe, doth not the earth oreflow?If the windes rage, doth not the Sea wax mad,Threatning the welkin with his big-swolne face?And wilt thou haue a reason for this coile?I am the Sea. Harke how her sighes doe flow:Shee is the weeping welkin, I the earth:Then must my Sea be moued with her sighes,Then must my earth with her continuall teares,Become a deluge: ouerflow'd and drown'd:For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,But like a drunkard must I vomit them:Then giue me leaue, for loosers will haue leaue,To ease their stomackes with their bitter tongues,

Enter a messenger with two heads and a hand.

  Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid,For that good hand thou sentst the Emperour:Heere are the heads of thy two noble sonnes.And heeres thy hand in scorne to thee sent backe:Thy griefes, their sports: Thy resolution mockt,That woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes,More then remembrance of my fathers death.

Enter.

  Marc. Now let hot aetna coole in Cicilie,And be my heart an euer-burning hell:These miseries are more then may be borne.To weepe with them that weepe, doth ease some deale,But sorrow flouted at, is double death   Luci. Ah that this sight should make so deep a wound,And yet detested life not shrinke thereat:That euer death should let life beare his name,Where life hath no more interest but to breath   Mar. Alas poore hart that kisse is comfortlesse,As frozen water to a starued snake   Titus. When will this fearefull slumber haue an end?  Mar. Now farwell flatterie, die Andronicus,Thou dost not slumber, see thy two sons heads,Thy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here:Thy other banisht sonnes with this deere sightStrucke pale and bloodlesse, and thy brother I,Euen like a stony Image, cold and numme.Ah now no more will I controule my griefes,Rent off thy siluer haire, thy other handGnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismall sightThe closing vp of our most wretched eyes:Now is a time to storme, why art thou still?  Titus. Ha, ha, ha,  Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this houre   Ti. Why I haue not another teare to shed:Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,And would vsurpe vpon my watry eyes,And make them blinde with tributarie teares.Then which way shall I finde Reuenges Caue?For these two heads doe seeme to speake to me,And threat me, I shall neuer come to blisse,Till all these mischiefes be returned againe,Euen in their throats that haue committed them.Come let me see what taske I haue to doe,You heauie people, circle me about,That I may turne me to each one of you,And sweare vnto my soule to right your wrongs.The vow is made, come Brother take a head,And in this hand the other will I beare.And Lauinia thou shalt be employd in these things:Beare thou my hand sweet wench betweene thy teeth:As for thee boy, goe get thee from my sight,Thou art an Exile, and thou must not stay,Hie to the Gothes, and raise an army there,And if you loue me, as I thinke you doe,Let's kisse and part, for we haue much to doe.

Exeunt.

Manet Lucius.

  Luci. Farewell Andronicus my noble Father:The woful'st man that euer liu'd in Rome:Farewell proud Rome, til Lucius come againe,He loues his pledges dearer then his life:Farewell Lauinia my noble sister,O would thou wert as thou to fore hast beene,But now, nor Lucius nor Lauinia liuesBut in obliuion and hateful griefes:If Lucius liue, he will requit your wrongs,And make proud Saturnine and his EmpresseBeg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queene.Now will I to the Gothes and raise a power,To be reueng'd on Rome and Saturnine.

Exit Lucius

A Banket.

Enter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy.

  An. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no moreThen will preserue iust so much strength in vsAs will reuenge these bitter woes of ours.Marcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our handsAnd cannot passionate our tenfold griefe,With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine,Is left to tirranize vppon my breast.Who when my hart all mad with misery,Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,Then thus I thumpe it downe.Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes,When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating,Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still?Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones:Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth,And iust against thy hart make thou a hole,That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fallMay run into that sinke, and soaking in,Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares   Mar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to laySuch violent hands vppon her tender life   An. How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already?Why Marcus, no man should be mad but I:What violent hands can she lay on her life:Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands,To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice oreHow Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?O handle not the theame, to talke of hands,Least we remember still that we haue none,Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talkeAs if we should forget we had no hands:If Marcus did not name the word of hands.Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this,Heere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies,I can interpret all her martir'd signes,She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but tearesBreu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes,Speechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought:In thy dumb action, will I be as perfectAs begging Hermits in their holy prayers.Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen,Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe;But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet,And by still practice, learne to know thy meaning   Boy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale   Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse   An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,And teares will quickly melt thy life away.Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife   Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly  An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:A deed of death done on the InnocentBecoms not Titus brother: get thee gone,I see thou art not for my companyMar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie   An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?How would he hang his slender gilded wingsAnd buz lamenting doings in the ayer,Poore harmelesse Fly,That with his pretty buzing melody,Came heere to make vs merry,And thou hast kil'd him   Mar. Pardon me sir,It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly,Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him   An. O, o, o,Then pardon me for reprehending thee,For thou hast done a Charitable deed:Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him,Flattering my selfe, as if it were the Moore,Come hither purposely to poyson me.There's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamora: Ah sirra,Yet I thinke we are not brought so low,But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly,That comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore   Mar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,He takes false shadowes, for true substances   An. Come, take away: Lauinia, goe with me,Ile to thy closset, and goe read with theeSad stories, chanced in the times of old.Come boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young,And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.

Exeunt.

Actus Quartus.

Enter young Lucius and Lauinia running after him, and the Boy flies from her with his bookes vnder his arme. Enter Titus and Marcus.

  Boy. Helpe Gransier helpe, my Aunt Lauinia,Followes me euery where I know not why.Good Vncle Marcus see how swift she comes,Alas sweet Aunt, I know not what you meaneMar. Stand by me Lucius, doe not feare thy Aunt   Titus. She loues thee boy too well to doe thee harme  Boy. I when my father was in Rome she did   Mar. What meanes my Neece Lauinia by these signes?  Ti. Feare not Lucius, somewhat doth she meane:See Lucius see, how much she makes of thee:Some whether would she haue thee goe with her.Ah boy, Cornelia neuer with more careRead to her sonnes, then she hath read to thee,Sweet Poetry, and Tullies Oratour:Canst thou not gesse wherefore she plies thee thus?  Boy. My Lord I know not I, nor can I gesse,Vnlesse some fit or frenzie do possesse her:For I haue heard my Gransier say full oft,Extremitie of griefes would make men mad.And I haue read that Hecuba of Troy,Ran mad through sorrow, that made me to feare,Although my Lord, I know my noble Aunt,Loues me as deare as ere my mother did,And would not but in fury fright my youth,Which made me downe to throw my bookes, and flieCausles perhaps, but pardon me sweet Aunt,And Madam, if my Vncle Marcus goe,I will most willingly attend your LadyshipMar. Lucius I will   Ti. How now Lauinia, Marcus what meanes this?Some booke there is that she desires to see,Which is it girle of these? Open them boy,But thou art deeper read and better skild,Come and take choyse of all my Library,And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heauensReueale the damn'd contriuer of this deed.What booke?Why lifts she vp her armes in sequence thus?  Mar. I thinke she meanes that ther was more then oneConfederate in the fact, I more there was:Or else to heauen she heaues them to reuenge   Ti. Lucius what booke is that she tosseth so?  Boy. Grandsier 'tis Ouids Metamorphosis,My mother gaue it me   Mar. For loue of her that's gone,Perhaps she culd it from among the rest   Ti. Soft, so busily she turnes the leaues,Helpe her, what would she finde? Lauinia shall I read?This is the tragicke tale of Philomel?And treates of Tereus treason and his rape,And rape I feare was roote of thine annoy   Mar. See brother see, note how she quotes the leaues  Ti. Lauinia, wert thou thus surpriz'd sweet girle,Rauisht and wrong'd as Philomela was?Forc'd in the ruthlesse, vast, and gloomy woods?See, see, I such a place there is where we did hunt,(O had we neuer, neuer hunted there)Patern'd by that the Poet heere describes,By nature made for murthers and for rapes   Mar. O why should nature build so foule a den,Vnlesse the Gods delight in tragedies?  Ti. Giue signes sweet girle, for heere are none but friendsWhat Romaine Lord it was durst do the deed?Or slunke not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,That left the Campe to sinne in Lucrece bed   Mar. Sit downe sweet Neece, brother sit downe by me,Appollo, Pallas, Ioue, or Mercury,Inspire me that I may this treason finde.My Lord looke heere, looke heere Lauinia.

He writes his Name with his staffe, and guides it with feete and mouth.

This sandie plot is plaine, guide if thou canstThis after me, I haue writ my name,Without the helpe of any hand at all.Curst be that hart that forc'st vs to that shift:Write thou good Neece, and heere display at last,What God will haue discouered for reuenge,Heauen guide thy pen to print thy sorrowes plaine,That we may know the Traytors and the truth.

She takes the staffe in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps and writes.

  Ti. Oh doe ye read my Lord what she hath writ?Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius   Mar. What, what, the lustfull sonnes of Tamora,Performers of this hainous bloody deed?  Ti. Magni Dominator poli,Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides?  Mar. Oh calme thee gentle Lord: Although I knowThere is enough written vpon this earth,To stirre a mutinie in the mildest thoughts,And arme the mindes of infants to exclaimes.My Lord kneele downe with me: Lauinia kneele,And kneele sweet boy, the Romaine Hectors hope,And sweare with me, as with the wofull FeereAnd father of that chast dishonoured Dame,Lord Iunius Brutus sweare for Lucrece rape,That we will prosecute (by good aduise)Mortall reuenge vpon these traytorous Gothes,And see their blood, or die with this reproach   Ti. Tis sure enough, and you knew how.But if you hunt these Beare-whelpes, then bewareThe Dam will wake, and if she winde you once,Shee's with the Lyon deepely still in league.And lulls him whilst she playeth on her backe,And when he sleepes will she do what she list.You are a young huntsman Marcus, let it alone:And come, I will goe get a leafe of brasse,And with a Gad of steele will write these words,And lay it by: the angry Northerne windeWill blow these sands like Sibels leaues abroad,And wheres your lesson then. Boy what say you?  Boy. I say my Lord, that if I were a man,Their mothers bed-chamber should not be safe,For these bad bond-men to the yoake of Rome   Mar. I that's my boy, thy father hath full oft,For his vngratefull country done the likeBoy. And Vncle so will I, and if I liue   Ti. Come goe with me into mine Armorie,Lucius Ile fit thee, and withall, my boyShall carry from me to the Empresse sonnes,Presents that I intend to send them both,Come, come, thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not?  Boy. I with my dagger in their bosomes Grandsire:  Ti. No boy not so, Ile teach thee another course,Lauinia come, Marcus looke to my house,Lucius and Ile goe braue it at the Court,I marry will we sir, and weele be waited on.

Exeunt.

  Mar. O heauens! Can you heare a good man groneAnd not relent, or not compassion him?Marcus attend him in his extasie,That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart,Then foe-mens markes vpon his batter'd shield,But yet so iust, that he will not reuenge,Reuenge the heauens for old Andronicus.

Exit

Enter Aron, Chiron and Demetrius at one dore: and at another dore young Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ vpon them.

  Chi. Demetrius heeres the sonne of Lucius,He hath some message to deliuer vsAron. I some mad message from his mad Grandfather   Boy. My Lords, with all the humblenesse I may,I greete your honours from Andronicus,And pray the Romane Gods confound you both   Deme. Gramercie louely Lucius, what's the newes?For villanie's markt with rape. May it please you,My Grandsire well aduis'd hath sent by me,The goodliest weapons of his Armorie,To gratifie your honourable youth,The hope of Rome, for so he bad me say:And so I do and with his gifts presentYour Lordships, when euer you haue need,You may be armed and appointed well,And so I leaue you both: like bloody villaines.

Exit

  Deme. What's heere? a scrole, & written round about?Let's see.Integer vitć scelerisque purus, non egit maury iaculis nec arcus   Chi. O 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well.I read it in the Grammer long agoe   Moore. I iust, a verse in Horace: right, you haue it,Now what a thing it is to be an Asse?Heer's no sound iest, the old man hath found their guilt,And sends the weapons wrapt about with lines,That wound (beyond their feeling) to the quick:But were our witty Empresse well a foot,She would applaud Andronicus conceit:But let her rest, in her vnrest a while.And now young Lords, was't not a happy starreLed vs to Rome strangers, and more then so;Captiues, to be aduanced to this height?It did me good before the Pallace gate,To braue the Tribune in his brothers hearing   Deme. But me more good, to see so great a LordBasely insinuate, and send vs gifts   Moore. Had he not reason Lord Demetrius?Did you not vse his daughter very friendly?  Deme. I would we had a thousand Romane DamesAt such a bay, by turne to serue our lustChi. A charitable wish, and full of loueMoore. Heere lack's but your mother for to say, AmenChi. And that would she for twenty thousand more   Deme. Come, let vs go, and pray to all the GodsFor our beloued mother in her painesMoore. Pray to the deuils, the gods haue giuen vs ouer.

Flourish.

  Dem. Why do the Emperors trumpets flourish thus?  Chi. Belike for ioy the Emperour hath a sonne   Deme. Soft, who comes heere?

Enter Nurse with a blacke a Moore childe.

  Nur. Good morrow Lords:O tell me, did you see Aaron the Moore?  Aron. Well, more or lesse, or nere a whit at all,Heere Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?  Nurse. Oh gentle Aaron, we are all vndone.Now helpe, or woe betide thee euermore   Aron. Why, what a catterwalling dost thou keepe?What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine armes?  Nurse. O that which I would hide from heauens eye,Our Empresse shame, and stately Romes disgrace,She is deliuered Lords, she is deliuered   Aron. To whom?  Nurse. I meane she is brought a bed?  Aron. Wel God giue her good rest,What hath he sent her?  Nurse. A deuillAron. Why then she is the Deuils Dam: a ioyfull issue   Nurse. A ioylesse, dismall, blacke &, sorrowfull issue,Heere is the babe as loathsome as a toad,Among'st the fairest breeders of our clime,The Empresse sends it thee, thy stampe, thy seale,And bids thee christen it with thy daggers point   Aron. Out you whore, is black so base a hue?Sweet blowse, you are a beautious blossome sure   Deme. Villaine what hast thou done?  Aron. That which thou canst not vndoeChi. Thou hast vndone our mother   Deme. And therein hellish dog, thou hast vndone,Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choyce,Accur'st the off-spring of so foule a fiendChi. It shall not liueAron. It shall not dieNurse. Aaron it must, the mother wils it so   Aron. What, must it Nurse? Then let no man but IDoe execution on my flesh and blood   Deme. Ile broach the Tadpole on my Rapiers point:  Nurse giue it me, my sword shall soone dispatch it   Aron. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels vp.Stay murtherous villaines, will you kill your brother?Now by the burning Tapers of the skie,That shone so brightly when this Boy was got,He dies vpon my Semitars sharpe point,That touches this my first borne sonne and heire.I tell you younglings, not EnceladusWith all his threatning band of Typhons broode,Nor great Alcides, nor the God of warre,Shall ceaze this prey out of his fathers hands:What, what, ye sanguine shallow harted Boyes,Ye white-limb'd walls, ye Ale-house painted signes,Cole-blacke is better then another hue,In that it scornes to beare another hue:For all the water in the Ocean,Can neuer turne the Swans blacke legs to white,Although she laue them hourely in the flood:Tell the Empresse from me, I am of ageTo keepe mine owne, excuse it how she can  Deme. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistris thus?  Aron. My mistris is my mistris: this my selfe,The vigour, and the picture of my youth:This, before all the world do I preferre,This mauger all the world will I keepe safe,Or some of you shall smoake for it in RomeDeme. By this our mother is for euer sham'dChi. Rome will despise her for this foule escapeNur. The Emperour in his rage will doome her deathChi. I blush to thinke vpon this ignominie   Aron. Why ther's the priuiledge your beauty beares:Fie trecherous hue, that will betray with blushingThe close enacts and counsels of the hart:Heer's a young Lad fram'd of another leere,Looke how the blacke slaue smiles vpon the father;As who should say, old Lad I am thine owne.He is your brother Lords, sensibly fedOf that selfe blood that first gaue life to you,And from that wombe where you imprisoned wereHe is infranchised and come to light:Nay he is your brother by the surer side,Although my seale be stamped in his face   Nurse. Aaron what shall I say vnto the Empresse?  Dem. Aduise thee Aaron, what is to be done,And we will all subscribe to thy aduise:Saue thou the child, so we may all be safe   Aron. Then sit we downe and let vs all consult.My sonne and I will haue the winde of you:Keepe there, now talke at pleasure of your safety   Deme. How many women saw this childe of his?  Aron. Why so braue Lords, when we ioyne in leagueI am a Lambe: but if you braue the Moore,The chafed Bore, the mountaine Lyonesse,The Ocean swells not so as Aaron stormes:But say againe, how many saw the childe?  Nurse. Cornelia, the midwife, and my selfe,And none else but the deliuered Empresse   Aron. The Empresse, the Midwife, and your selfe,Two may keepe counsell, when the third's away:Goe to the Empresse, tell her this I said,

He kils her

Weeke, weeke, so cries a Pigge prepared to th' spit   Deme. What mean'st thou Aron?Wherefore did'st thou this?  Aron. O Lord sir, 'tis a deed of pollicie?Shall she liue to betray this guilt of our's:A long tongu'd babling Gossip? No Lords no:And now be it knowne to you my full intent.Not farre, one Muliteus my Country-manHis wife but yesternight was brought to bed,His childe is like to her, faire as you are:Goe packe with them, and giue the mother gold,And tell them both the circumstance of all,And how by this their Childe shall be aduaunc'd,And be receiued for the Emperours heyre,And substituted in the place of mine,To calme this tempest whirling in the Court,And let the Emperour dandle him for his owne,Harke ye Lords, ye see I haue giuen her physicke,And you must needs bestow her funerall,The fields are neere, and you are gallant Groomes:This done, see that you take no longer daiesBut send the Midwife presently to me.The Midwife and the Nurse well made away,Then let the Ladies tattle what they pleaseChi. Aaron I see thou wilt not trust the ayre with secrets   Deme. For this care of Tamora,Her selfe, and hers are highly bound to thee.

Exeunt

   Aron. Now to the Gothes, as swift as Swallow flies,There to dispose this treasure in mine armes,And secretly to greete the Empresse friends:Come on you thick-lipt-slaue, Ile beare you hence,For it is you that puts vs to our shifts:Ile make you feed on berries, and on rootes,And feed on curds and whay, and sucke the Goate,And cabbin in a Caue, and bring you vpTo be a warriour, and command a Campe.

Exit

Enter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other gentlemen with bowes, and Titus beares the arrowes with Letters on the end of them.

  Tit. Come Marcus, come, kinsmen this is the way.Sir Boy let me see your Archerie,Looke yee draw home enough, and 'tis there straight:Terras Astrea reliquit, be you remembred Marcus.She's gone, she's fled, sirs take you to your tooles,You Cosens shall goe sound the Ocean:And cast your nets, haply you may find her in the Sea,Yet ther's as little iustice as at Land:No Publius and Sempronius, you must doe it,'Tis you must dig with Mattocke, and with Spade,And pierce the inmost Center of the earth:Then when you come to Plutoes Region,I pray you deliuer him this petition,Tell him it is for iustice, and for aide,And that it comes from old Andronicus,Shaken with sorrowes in vngratefull Rome.Ah Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable,What time I threw the peoples suffragesOn him that thus doth tyrannize ore me.Goe get you gone, and pray be carefull all,And leaue you not a man of warre vnsearcht,This wicked Emperour may haue shipt her hence,And kinsmen then we may goe pipe for iustice   Marc. O Publius is not this a heauie caseTo see thy Noble Vnckle thus distract?  Publ. Therefore my Lords it highly vs concernes,By day and night t' attend him carefully:And feede his humour kindely as we may,Till time beget some carefull remedie   Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrowes are past remedie.Ioyne with the Gothes, and with reuengefull warre,Take wreake on Rome for this ingratitude,And vengeance on the Traytor Saturnine   Tit. Publius how now? how now my Maisters?What haue you met with her?  Publ. No my good Lord, but Pluto sends you word,If you will haue reuenge from hell you shall,Marrie for iustice she is so imploy'd,He thinkes with Ioue in heauen, or some where else:So that perforce you must needs stay a time   Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delayes,Ile diue into the burning Lake below,And pull her out of Acaron by the heeles.Marcus we are but shrubs, no Cedars we,No big-bon'd-men, fram'd of the Cyclops size,But mettall Marcus steele to the very backe,Yet wrung with wrongs more then our backe can beare:And sith there's no iustice in earth nor hell,We will sollicite heauen, and moue the GodsTo send downe Iustice for to wreake our wrongs:Come to this geare, you are a good Archer Marcus.

He giues them the Arrowes.