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Folger Shakespeare Library, Twelfth Night. To Jun. 9, 2013.
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Titus Andronicus (Quarto 1, 1594)

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed
Enter the Empresse sonnes with Lauinia, her handes
cut off, and her tongue cut out, & rauisht.
1070Deme. So now go tell and if thy tongue can speake,
VVho twas that cut thy tongue and rauisht thee.
Chi. VVrite downe thy minde bewray thy meaning so,
And if thy stumpes will let thee play the scribe.
Deme. See how with signes and tokens she can scrowle.
1075Chi. Goe home, call for sweet water wash thy hands.
Demet. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash'
And so lets leaue her to her silent walkes.
Chi. And twere my cause, I should goe hang my selfe.
1080Demet. If thou hadst hands to helpe thee knit the corde.
Exeunt.
Enter Marcus from hunting.
VVho is this, my Neece that flies away so fast,
1085Cosen a word, where is your husband:
If I doe dreame would all my wealth would wake me.
If I doe wake some Plannet strike me downe,
That I may slumber an eternall sleepe.
Speake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle hands,
1090Hath lopt, and hewde, and made thy body bare,
Of her two branches those sweet Ornaments,
VVhose cyrcling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleepe
And might not gaine so great a happines
As halfe thy loue: VVhy dost not speake to me?
1095Alas, a crimson Riuer of warme blood,
Like to a bubling Fountaine stirde with winde,
Doth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips,
Comming and going with thy honie breath.
But sure some Tereus hath deflowred thee,
1100And lest thou shouldst detect them cut thy tongue.
Ah now thou turnst awaie 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,
1105Blushing to be encountred with a Clowde.
Shall I speake for thee, shall I say tis so.
Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast,
That I might raile at him to ease my minde.
Sorrow concealed like an Ouen stoppt,
1110Doth burne the hart to cinders where it is.
Faire Philomela, why 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, Cosen hast thou met,
1115And he hath cut those prettie fingers off,
That could haue better sowed than Philomel.
Oh had the monster seene those Lillie hands,
Tremble like aspen leaues vpon a Lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kisse them,
1120He would not then haue tucht them for his life.
Or had he heard the heauenly Harmonie,
VVhich that sweete tongue hath made,
He would haue dropt his knife and fell a sleepe,
As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete.
1125Come let vs goe, and make thy father blind,
For such a sight will blind a fathers eie.
One houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades,
VVhat will whole months of teares thy fathers eies?
Doe not drawe backe, for we will mourne with thee,
1130Oh could our mourning ease thy miserie.
Exeunt.