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Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!

And notwithstanding all this loss of blood-

As from a conduit with three issuing spouts-

Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face

Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud.

Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so?

O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,

That I might rail at him to ease my mind!

Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue,

And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind;

But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee.

A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,

And he hath cut those pretty fingers off

That could have better sew'd than Philomel.

O, had the monster seen those lily hands

Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute

And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,

He would not then have touch'd them for his life!

Or had he heard the heavenly harmony

Which that sweet tongue hath made,

He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,

As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind,

For such a sight will blind a father's eye;

One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads,

What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?

Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee;

O, could our mourning case thy misery! Exeunt

ACT III.

SCENE I. Rome. A street

Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons

MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution,

and TITUS going before, pleading

TITUS.

Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay!

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent

In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;

For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,

For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd,

And for these bitter tears, which now you see

Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,

Be pitiful to my condemned sons,

Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.

For two and twenty sons I never wept,

Because they died in honour's lofty bed.

[ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges

pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt]

For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write

My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.

Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;

My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.

O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain

That shall distil from these two ancient urns,

Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs.

In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;

In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow

And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,

So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.

Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn

O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men!

Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,

And let me say, that never wept before,

My tears are now prevailing orators.

LUCIUS.

O noble father, you lament in vain;

The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,

And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

TITUS.

Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead!

Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you.

LUCIUS.

My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.

TITUS.

Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear,

They would not mark me; if they did mark,

They would not pity me; yet plead I must,

And bootless unto them.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;

Who though they cannot answer my distress,

Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes,

For that they will not intercept my tale.

When I do weep, they humbly at my feet

Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;

And were they but attired in grave weeds,

Rome could afford no tribunes like to these.

A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones.

A stone is silent and offendeth not,

And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.

[Rises]

But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?

LUCIUS.

To rescue my two brothers from their death;

For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd

My everlasting doom of banishment.

TITUS.

O happy man!