1453An. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more

1454Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs

1455As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours.

1456Marcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:

1457Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands

1458And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe,

1459With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine,

1460Is left to tirranize vppon my breast.

1461Who when my hart all mad with misery,

1462Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

1463Then thus I thumpe it downe.

1464Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes,

1465When thy poore hart beates with outragious beating,

1466Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still?

1467Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones:

1468Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth,

1469And iust against thy hart make thou a hole,

1470That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall

1471May run into that sinke, and soaking in,

1472Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares.

1473Mar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay

1474Such violent hands vppon her tender life.

1475An. How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already?

1476Why Marcus, no man should be mad but I:

1477What violent hands can she lay on her life:

1478Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands,

1479To bid AEneas tell the tale twice ore

1480How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?

1481O handle not the theame, to talke of hands,

1482Least we remember still that we haue none,

1483Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke

1484As if we should forget we had no hands:

1485If Marcus did not name the word of hands.

1486Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this,

1487Heere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies,

1488I can interpret all her martir'd signes,

1489She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares

1490Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes,

The Tragedie of Titus Andronicus. 43

1491Speechlesse complaynet, I will learne thy thought:

1492In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect

1493As begging Hermits in their holy prayers.

1494Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen,

1495Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe,

1496But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet,

1497And by still practice, learne to know thy meaning.

1498Boy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,

1499Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale.

1500Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,

1501Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse.

1502An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,

1503And teares will quickly melt thy life away.

1505What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife.

1506Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Flys

1507An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,

1508Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:

1509A deed of death done on the Innocent

1510Becoms not Titus broher: get thee gone,

1511I see thou art not for my company.

1512Mar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie.

1513An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?

1514How would he hang his slender gilded wings

1515And buz lamenting doings in the ayer,

1516Poore harmelesse Fly,

1517That with his pretty buzing melody,

1518Came heere to make vs merry,

1519And thou hast kil'd him.

1520Mar. Pardon me sir,

1521It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly,

1522Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him.

1523An. O, o, o,

1524Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

1525For thou hast done a Charitable deed:

1526Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him,

1527Flattering myselfes, as if it were the Moore,

1528Come hither purposely to poyson me.

1529There's for thyselfe, and thats for Tamira: Ah sirra,

1530Yet I thinke we are not brought so low,

1531But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly,

1532That comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore.

1533Mar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,

1534He takes false shadowes, for true substances.

1535An. Come, take away: Lauinia, goe with me,

1536Ile to thy closset, and goe read with thee

1537Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.

1538Come boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young,

1539And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell. Exeunt