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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 banish’d 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 martyr’d thee:

       Thy husband he is dead; and for his death

       Thy brothers are condemn’d, 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 gather’d lily almost wither’d.

      MARCUS.

       Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband:

       Perchance because she knows them innocent.

      TITUS.

       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 stain’d, 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 made 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 wonder’d at in time to come.

      LUCIUS.

       Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief

       See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

      MARCUS.

       Patience, dear niece.—Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

      TITUS.

       Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot

       Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

       For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.

      LUCIUS.

       Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

      TITUS.

       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 limbo is from bliss!

       [Enter AARON.]

      AARON.

       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.

      TITUS.

       O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!

       Did ever raven sing so like a lark

       That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise?

       With all my heart I’ll send the emperor

       My hand:

       Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

      LUCIUS.

       Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,

       That hath thrown down so many enemies,

       Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn:

       My youth can better spare my blood than you;

       And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.

      MARCUS.

       Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,

       And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe,

       Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle?

       O, none of both but are of high desert:

       My hand hath been but idle; let it serve

       To ransom my two nephews from their death;

       Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

      AARON.

       Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,

       For fear they die before their pardon come.

      MARCUS.

       My hand shall go.

      LUCIUS.

       By heaven, it shall not go!

      TITUS.

       Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these

       Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

      LUCIUS.

       Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,

       Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

      MARCUS.

       And for our father’s sake and mother’s care,

       Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

      TITUS.

       Agree between you; I will spare my hand.

      LUCIUS.

       Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

      MARCUS.

       But I will use the axe.

       [Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS.]

      TITUS.

       Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both:

       Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

      AARON.

       [Aside.] If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest,

       And never whilst I live deceive men so:—

       But I’ll deceive you in another sort,

       And that you’ll say ere half an hour pass.

       [He cuts off TITUS’S hand.]

      

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