Another part of the Forest.

       [Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out.]

      DEMETRIUS.

       So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,

       Who ‘twas that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee.

      CHIRON.

       Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,

       An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.

      DEMETRIUS.

       See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.

      CHIRON.

       Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

      DEMETRIUS.

       She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;

       And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.

      CHIRON.

       An ‘twere my case, I should go hang myself.

      DEMETRIUS.

       If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.

       [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.]

       [Enter MARCUS.]

      MARCUS.

       Who is this?—my niece,—that flies away so fast?

       Cousin, a word; where is your husband?—

       If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!

       If I do wake, some planet strike me down,

       That I may slumber an eternal sleep!—

       Speak, gentle niece,—what stern ungentle hands

       Hath lopp’d, and hew’d, and made thy body bare

       Of her two branches,—those sweet ornaments

       Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,

       And might not gain so great a happiness

       As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me?—

       Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,

       Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind,

       Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,

       Coming and going with thy honey breath.

       But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee,

       And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.

       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 encounter’d 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 Philomela, 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.]