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That faid'ft, I begg'd the empire at thy hands.
Tit. O monftrous! what reproachful words are these? Sat. But go thy ways; go give that changing piece, To him that flourifh'd for her with his fword; A valiant fon-in-law thou fhalt enjoy :< One fit to bandy with thy lawless fons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.
Tit. Thefe words are razors to my wounded heart. Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora Queen of Goths, That, like the stately Phoebe 'mong her nymphs, Doft over-fhine the gallant'ft dames of Rome If thou be pleas'd with this my fudden choice, Behold I chufe thee, Tamora, for my bride, And will create thee Emperefs of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, doft thou applaud my choice? And here I fwear by all the Roman Gods, (Sith priest and holy water are fo near, And tapers burn fo bright, and every thing In readiness for Hymenæus ftands,)
I will not re-falute the streets of Rome,
Of climb my palace, 'till from forth this place
Tam. And here in fight of heav'n to Rome I fwear,
If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,
Sat. Afcend, fair Queen, Pantheon; Lords, accompany
SCENE V. Manet Titus Andronieus.
Enter Marcus Andronicus, Lucius, Quintus, and Marcus.
Tit. No, foolish Tribune, no: no fon of mine, Ner thou, nor thefe confederates in the deed,
That hath difhonour'd all our family;
Tit. Traitors, away! he refts not in this tomb;
Sons. And fhall, or him we will accompany.
Tit. Marcus, ev'n thou haft ftruck upon my creft,
Luc. He is not well himself, let us withdraw.
[The brother and the fons kneel. Mar. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,Quin. Father, and in that name doth nature fpeak,Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the reft will speed. Mar. Renowned Titus, more than half my foul! Luc. Dear father, foul and fubftance of us all Mar. Suffer thy brother Marcus to interr His noble nephew here in virtue's neft, That died in honour, and Lavinia's caufe. Thou art a Roman, be not barbarous, The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax That flew himfelf; and wife Laertes' fon Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here.
Tit. Rife, Marcus, rife
The difmall'ft day is this that e'er I faw,
[They put him in the Tomb. Luc. There lye thy bones, fweet Mutius, with thy friends, 'Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb!
[They all kneel, and say,
No man fhed tears for noble Mutius!
Mar. My Lord, to step out of thefe dreary dumps,
Tit. I know not, Marcus; but I know it is:
That brought her for this high good turn fo far?
Flourish. Enter the Emperor, Tamora, Chiron, and De-
Baf. And you of yours, my Lord; I fay no more,
Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power,
Baf. Rape call you it, my Lord, to feize my own,
Sat. 'Tis good, Sir; you are very fhort with us,
Baf. My Lord, what I have done, as beft I may,
With his own hand did slay his youngest fon,
Tit. Prince Baffianus, leave to plead my deeds. 'Tis thou, and those, that have dishonour'd me: Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge, How I have lov'd and honour'd Saturnine.
Tam. My worthy Lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in thofe princely eyes of thine, Then hear me fpeak, indifferently, for all; And at my fuit (fweet) pardon what is paft.
Sat. What, Madam, be dishonour'd openly, And bafely put it up without revenge?
Tam. Not fo, my Lord; the Gods of Rome fore-fend, I fhould be author to difhonour you: But, on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus' innocence in all; Whofe fury not diffembled speaks his griefs: Then at my fuit look gracioufly on him, Lofe not fo noble a friend on vain fuppofe, Nor with four looks afflict his gentle heart. My Lord, be rul'd by me, be won at laft, Diffemble all your griefs and difcontents: You are but newly planted in your throne; Left then the people and patricians too Upon a juft furvey take Titus' part, And fo fupplant us for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous fin, Yield at intreats, and then let me alone; I'll find a day to maffacre them all, And rafe their faction, and their family, The cruel father, and his traiterous fons, To whom I fued for my dear fon's life: And make them know what 'tis to let a Queen Kneel in the streets, and beg for grace in vain. Come, come, fweet Emperor-come, Andronicus-[Aloud. Take up this good old man, and chear the heart,
That dies in tempeft of thy angry frown.
Sat. Rife, Titus, rife, my Empress hath prevail'à,
Luc. We do, and vow to heaven, and to his Highness,
Mar. That on mine honour here I do proteft. Sat. Away, and talk not, trouble us no more. Tam. Nay, nay, fweet Emperor, we must all be friends. The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace, I will not be denied, fweet-heart, look back.
Sat, Marcus, for thy fake and thy brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's intreats,
I do remit these young men's heinous faults.
Tit. To-morrow, an it please your Majesty