The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

>To that I call! [To LAVINIA] What, would’st thou kneel with me?

Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes.

TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?

Then be my passions bottomless with them.

MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament.

TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes.

When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow?

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat’ning the welkin with his big-swol’n face?

And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?

I am the sea; hark how her sighs do blow.

She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them.

Then give me leave; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

 

Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the Emperor.

Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back-Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mock’d, That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father’s death. Exit MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell!

These miseries are more than may be borne.

To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death.

LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat!

That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!

[LAVINIA kisses TITUS]

MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake.

TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end?

MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt’ry; die, Andronicus.

Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish’d son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb.

Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.

Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes.

Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

TITUS. Ha, ha, ha!

MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour.

TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed; Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

And would usurp upon my wat’ry eyes

And make them blind with tributary tears.

Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave?

For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return’d again Even in their throats that have committed them.

Come, let me see what task I have to do.

You heavy people, circle me about,

That I may turn me to each one of you And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.

The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear.

And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d in this; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.

As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay.

Hie to the Goths and raise an army there; And if ye love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.

Exeunt all but Lucius LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull’st man that ever liv’d in Rome.

Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.

Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;

O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been!

But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives

But in oblivion and hateful griefs.

If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs And make proud Saturnine and his emperess Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.

Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow’r To be reveng’d on Rome and Saturnine. Exit

SCENE II.

Rome. TITUS’ house

 

A banquet.

 

Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS

 

TITUS. So so, now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.

Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down.

[To LAVINIA] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!

When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.

Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already?

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.

What violent hands can she lay on her life?

Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands?

To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o’er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?

O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none.

Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands!

Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this: Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says-I can interpret all her martyr’d signs; She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew’d with her sorrow, mesh’d upon her cheeks.

Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers.

Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments; Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov’d, Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife]

What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

MARCUS. At that that I have kill’d, my lord-a fly.

TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou kill’st my heart!

Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny; A deed of death done on the innocent

Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company.

MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.

TITUS. ‘But!’ How if that fly had a father and mother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That with his pretty buzzing melody

Came here to make us merry! And thou hast kill’d him.

MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour’d fly, Like to the Empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.

TITUS. O, O, O!

Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me.

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora.

Ah, sirrah!

Yet, I think, we are not brought so low But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances.

TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me; I’ll to thy closet, and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. Exeunt

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ACT IV. SCENE I.

Rome. TITUS’ garden

 

Enter YOUNG LUCIUS and LAVINIA running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm.

 

Enter TITUS and MARCUS

 

BOY. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me everywhere, I know not why.

Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes!

Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

BOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.

MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth she mean.

See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee.

Somewhither would she have thee go with her.

Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care 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