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Read to her sons than she hath read to thee

Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.

MARCUS.

Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

BOY.

My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,

Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her;

For I have heard my grandsire say full oft

Extremity of griefs would make men mad;

And I have read that Hecuba of Troy

Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear;

Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt

Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;

Which made me down to throw my books, and fly-

Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;

And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

MARCUS.

Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over with her

stumps the books which Lucius has let fall]

TITUS.

How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?

Some book there is that she desires to see.

Which is it, girl, of these?- Open them, boy.-

But thou art deeper read and better skill'd;

Come and take choice of all my library,

And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens

Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

MARCUS.

I think she means that there were more than one

Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was,

Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

TITUS.

Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

BOY.

Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses;

My mother gave it me.

MARCUS.

For love of her that's gone,

Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.

TITUS.

Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her.

What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?

This is the tragic tale of Philomel

And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;

And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy.

MARCUS.

See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves.

TITUS.

Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl,

Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?

See, see!

Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt-

O, had we never, never hunted there!-

Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,

By nature made for murders and for rapes.

MARCUS.

O, why should nature build so foul a den,

Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

TITUS.

Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed.

Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,

That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?

MARCUS.

Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by me.

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me, that I may this treason find!

My lord, look here! Look here, Lavinia!

[He writes his name with his

staff, and guides it with feet and mouth]

This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,

This after me. I have writ my name

Without the help of any hand at all.

Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!

Write thou, good niece, and here display at last

What God will have discovered for revenge.

Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,

That we may know the traitors and the truth!

[She takes the staff in her mouth

and guides it with stumps, and writes]

O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?

TITUS.

'Stuprum- Chiron- Demetrius.'

MARCUS.

What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora

Performers of this heinous bloody deed?

TITUS.

Magni Dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

MARCUS.

O, calm thee, gentle lord! although I know

There is enough written upon this earth

To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,

And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.

My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;

And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;

And swear with me- as, with the woeful fere

And father of that chaste dishonoured dame,

Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape-

That we will prosecute, by good advice,

Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,

And see their blood or die with this reproach.

TITUS.

'Tis sure enough, an you knew how;

But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:

The dam will wake; and if she wind ye once,

She's with