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- $Unique_ID{SSP00007}
- $Title{Titus Andronicus: Act III, Scene II}
- $Author{Shakespeare, William}
- $Subject{}
- $Log{Dramatis Personae*00000.TXT}
-
- Portions copyright (c) CMC ReSearch, Inc., 1989
-
- The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS
-
-
- ACT III
- ................................................................................
-
-
- SCENE II: A room in Titus's house. A banquet set out.
- . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
-
- {Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA and Young LUCIUS,
- a boy.}
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more
- Than will preserve just so much strength in us
- As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
- Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:
- Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
- And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
- With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
- Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;
- Who, when my heart, all mad with misery,
- Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 10
- Then thus I thump it down.
-
- [To LAVINIA.]
-
- Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
- When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
- Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
- Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
- Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
- And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
- That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
- May run into that sink, and soaking in
- Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. 20
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay
- Such violent hands upon her tender life.
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?
- Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
- What violent hands can she lay on her life?
- Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;
- To bid AEneas tell the tale twice o'er,
- How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?
- O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
- Lest we remember still that we have none. 30
- Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,
- As if we should forget we had no hands,
- If Marcus did not name the word of hands!
- Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:
- Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says;
- I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
- She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
- Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks:
- Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
- In thy dumb action will I be as perfect 40
- As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
- Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
- Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
- But I of these will wrest an alphabet
- And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.
-
- Young LUCIUS: Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:
- Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,
- Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, 50
- And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
-
- [MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife.]
-
- What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart;
- Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
- A deed of death done on the innocent
- Becomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone:
- I see thou art not for my company.
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: But how, if that fly had a father and mother? 60
- How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
- And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
- Poor harmless fly,
- That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
- Came here to make us merry! and thou hast
- kill'd him.
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favor'd fly,
- Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: O, O, O,
- Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
- For thou hast done a charitable deed. 70
- Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
- Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor
- Come hither purposely to poison me.--
- There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
- Ah, sirrah!
- Yet, I think, we are not brought so low,
- But that between us we can kill a fly
- That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
-
- MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
- He takes false shadows for true substances. 80
-
- TITUS ANDRONICUS: Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me:
- I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
- Sad stories chanced in the times of old.
- Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,
- And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.
-
- [Exeunt.]
-