Shakespeare's First Folio Part 487

Mar. But I will vse the Axe.

Exeunt.

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 pa.s.se.

He cuts off t.i.tus 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 him From 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 villany Doth 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 pa.s.sions bottomlesse with them

Mar. But yet let reason gouerne thy lament

t.i.tus. 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 n.o.ble 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 h.e.l.l: 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

t.i.tus. 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 sight Strucke 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 hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismall sight The closing vp of our most wretched eyes: Now is a time to storme, why art thou still?

t.i.tus. 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble sister, O would thou wert as thou to fore hast beene, But now, nor Lucius nor Lauinia liues But in obliuion and hateful griefes: If Lucius liue, he will requit your wrongs, And make proud Saturnine and his Empresse Beg 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 more Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours.

Marcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot: Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands And cannot pa.s.sionate 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 fall May run into that sinke, and soaking in, Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares

Mar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay Such 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 ore How 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 talke As 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 teares Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes, Speechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought: In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect As 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 pa.s.sion 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 Innocent Becoms not t.i.tus brother: get thee gone, I see thou art not for my company

Mar. 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 wings And 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