Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee.
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey,
But me and mine. How happy art thou, then,
From these devourers to be banished!

But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter MARCUS and LAVINIA.

Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep; Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break!

I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.

Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it, then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.

Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is.

Luc. Ah me! this object kills me!

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.

Speak, my Lavinia, what accursed hand

Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea?
Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.-
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too;
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain.
And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have served me to effectless use;
Now, all the service I require of them

Is, that the one will help to cut the other.-
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;
For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyred thee? Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabbed them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage; Where, like a sweet, melodious bird, it sung Sweet, varied notes, enchanting every ear!

Luc. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

Mar. O, thus I found her, straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer,
That hath received some unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my deer; and he that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more, than had he killed me dead.
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environed with a wilderness of sea;

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone;
Here stands my other son, a banished man;
And here, my brother, weeping at my woes;
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.-
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me; what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?

Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears;
Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyred thee.
Thy husband he is dead; and, for his death,
Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this.-
Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her.
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey dew
Upon a gathered lily almost withered.

Mar. Perchance, she weeps because they killed her husband;

Perchance, because she knows them innocent.

Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.-
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.-
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips;

Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain
Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks
How they are stained, like meadows, yet not dry
With miry slime left on them by a flood?

And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And make a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? Let us, that have our tongues,
Plot some device of further misery,

To make us wondered at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief,

See, how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Mar. Patience, dear niece ;-good Titus, dry thine

eyes.

Tit. Ah Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, hast drowned it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs.
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee;
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
O, what a sympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as limbo1 is from bliss!

Enter AARON.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word,-That, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, 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 sons alive; And that shall be the ransom for their fault. Tit. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark,

1 The Limbus patrum, as it was called, is a place that the schoolmen supposed to be in the neighborhood of hell, where the souls of the patriarchs were detained, and those good men who died before our Savior's resurrection. Milton gives the name of Limbo to his Paradise of Fools.