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To this your fon is markt, and die he muft,
T' appease their groaning fhadows that are gone.

Luc. Away with him, and make a fire straight.
And with our fwords, upon a pile of wood,
Let's hew his limbs, 'till they be clean confum'd.
[Exeunt Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius
with Alarbus.
Tam. O cruel irreligious piety!
Chi. Was ever Scythia half fo barbarous ?
Dem. Oppofe not Scythia to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus goes to reft, and we furvive
To tremble under Titus' threatning looks.
Then, Madam, stand refolv'd; but hope withal,
The felf-fame Gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy
With opportunity of fharp revenge
Upon the Thracian * tyrant in her tent,
May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths,
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was Queen)
To quit her bloody wrongs upon her foes.

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Tit. Let it be fo, and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewel to their fouls.

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Enter Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius.
Luc. See, Lord and father, how we have perform'd
Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopt,
And intrails feed the facrificing fire,
Whose smoke, like incenfe, doth perfume the fky.
Remaineth nought but to interr our brethren,
And with loud larums welcome them to Rome.

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[Then found trumpets, and lay the coffins in the tomb. In peace and honour reft you here, my fons, Rome's readieft champions, repose you here, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps: Here lurks no treafon, here no envy fwells, Here grow no damned grudges, here no ftorms, No noife: but filence and eternal sleep :

In peace and honour reft you here, my fons !

Polymneftor, whofe eyes were pull'd out and fons murder'db Hecuba, in revenge for his having treacheroadly dain her son Polydove. Euripid. in Hecs




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SCENE III. Enter Lavinia,
Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long,
My noble Lord and father, live in fame!
Lo at this tomb my tributary tears
I render, for my brethrens obfequies :
And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy
Shed on the earth, for thy return to Rome.
Oblefs me here with thy victorious hand,
Whose fortune Rome's best citizens applaud.

Tit. Kind Rome, that haft thus lovingly preferv'd
The cordial of mine age, to glad mine heart!
Lavinia, live, out-live thy father's days,'
In fame's eternal date for virtue's praife!

Mar. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!

Tit. Thanks, gentle Tribune, noble brother Marcus. Mar. And welcome, nephews, from fuccefsful wars, You that furvive, and you that fleep in fame: Fair Lords, your fortunes are alike in all, That in your country's fervice drew your fwords. But fafer triumph is this funeral pomp That hath afpir'd to Solon's happiness, And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whofe friend in juftice thou haft ever been, Send thee by me their Tribune, in their trust, This palliament of white and fpotlefs hue, And name thee in election for the empire, With thefe our late deceafed Emperor's fons: Be Candidatus then, and put And help to fet a head on headlefs Rome.


Tit. A better head her glorious body fits,
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness:
What fhould I don this robe, and trouble you?
Be chofe with proclamations to-day,
To-morrow yield up rule, refign my life,
And fet abroach new bufinefs for you all?
Rome, I have been thy foldier forty years,
And led my country's ftrength fuccefsfully,
And buried one and twenty valiant fons,



Knighted in field, flain manfully in arms,
In right and fervice of their noble country.
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a fceptre to controul the world.
Upright he held it, Lords, that held it laft.
Mar. Titus, thou shalt obtain the empery.
Sat. Proud and ambitious Tribune, canft thou tell?
Tit. Patience, prince Saturnine!
Sat. Romans, do me right!

Patricians, draw your fwords, and sheath them not
'Till Saturninus be Rome's Emperor.
Andronicus, would thou wert fhipt to hell,
Rather than rob me of the people's hearts.

Luc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good
That noble-minded Titus means to thee!

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Tit. Content thee, prince, I will reftore to thee
The people's hearts, and wean them from themselves.
Baf. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,

But honour thee, and will do 'till I die :
My faction if thou ftrengthen with thy friends,
I will moft thankful be; and thanks, to men
Of noble minds, is honourable meed.

Tit. People of Rome, and noble Tribunes here,
I ask your voices, and your fuffrages;
Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?
Mar. To gratifie the good Andronicus,
And gratulate his fafe return to Rome,
The people will accept whom he admits.

Tit. Tribunes, I thank you, and this fuit I make, That you create your Emperor's eldest fon, Lord Saturnine; whofe virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome, as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen juftice in this common-weal. Then if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and fay, Long live our Emperor! Mar. With voices and applaufe of every fort, Patricians and Plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus, Rome's great Emperor; And fay, Long live our Emperor Saturnine! [A long flourish 'till they come down.


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Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done
To us in our election this day,

I give thee thanks in part of thy deferts,
And will with deeds requite thy gentleness;
And for an onfet, Titus, to advance
Thy name, and honourable family,
Lavinia will I make my Emperefs,
Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart,
And in the facred Pantheon her espouse:

Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion pleafe thee?
Tit. It doth, my worthy Lord; and in this match,
I hold me highly honour'd of your Grace:
And here in fight of Rome, to Saturninus,
King and commander of our common-weal,
The wide world's Emperor, do I confecrate
My fword, my chariot, and my prisoners;
Prefents well worthy Rome's imperial Lord.
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,
Mine honour's enfigns humbled at thy feet.

Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life.
How proud I am of thee, and of thy gifts,
Rome fhall record; and when I do forget
The least of these unfpeakable deferts,
Romans, forget your fealty to me.

Tit. Now, Madam, are you prifoner to an Emperor,
To him that for your honour and your state
Will ufe you nobly, and your followers.

Sat. A goodly Lady, truft me, of the hue [To Tamora. That I would chufe, were I to chufe a-new: Clear up, fair Queen, that cloudy countenance;

Tho' chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou com'ft not to be made a fcorn in Rome:

Princely fhall be thy ufage every way.

Reft on my word, and let not discontent
Daunt all your hopes: Madam, who comforts you
Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths.
Lavinia, you are not difpleas'd with this?

Lav. Not I, my Lord, fith true nobility
Warrants these words in princely courtefie.

Sat. Thanks, fweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go.


Ranfomlefs here we fet our prifoners free;
Proclaim our honours, Lords, with trump and drum.
Baf. Lord Titus, by your leave this maid is mine.
[Seizing Lavinia.
Tit. How, Sir? are you in earneft then, my Lord?
Baf. Ay, noble Titus; and refolv'd withal,
To do my felf this reason and this right.

[The Emperor courts Tamora in dumb fhews. Mar. Suum cuique is our Roman juftice: This prince in juftice feizeth but his own.

Luc. And that he will, and fhall, if Lucius live. Tit. Traitors, avant! where is the Emperor's guard? Treafon, my Lord; Lavinia is furpriz'd. Sat. Supriz'd! by whom? Baf. By him that justly may

Bear his betroth'd from all the world away.

[Exit Baffianus with Lavinia, SCENE IV.

Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence away,
And with my fword I'll keep this door fecure.

Tit. Follow, my Lord, and I'll foon bring her back.
Mut. My Lord, you pafs not here.
Tit. What! villain-boy,

Barr'ft me my way in Rome?

Mut. Help, Lucius, help.

[He kills bim.


Luc. My Lord, you are unjuft, and more than fo,
In wrongful quarrel you have flain your fon.

Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any fons of mine.
My fons would never fo difhonour me.
Traitor, reftore Lavinia to the Emperor.

Luc. Dead, if you will, but not to be his wife,
That is another's lawful promis'd love.

Sat. No, Titus, no, the Emperor needs her not,
Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy ftock;
I'll truft by leifure him that mocks me once,
Thee never, nor thy traiterous haughty fons,
Confederates all, thus to dishonour me.

Was there none elfe in Rome to make a ftale of
But Saturnine? full well, Andronicus,
Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine,
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