Shakespeare's First Folio Part 485

Satur. Along with me, Ile see what hole is heere, And what he is that now is leapt into it.

Say, who art thou that lately did'st descend, Into this gaping hollow of the earth?

Marti. The vnhappie sonne of old Andronicus, Brought hither in a most vnluckie houre, To finde thy brother Ba.s.sia.n.u.s dead

Satur. My brother dead? I know thou dost but iest, He and his Lady both are at the Lodge, Vpon the North-side of this pleasant Chase, 'Tis not an houre since I left him there

Marti. We know not where you left him all aliue, But out alas, heere haue we found him dead.

Enter Tamora, Andronicus, and Lucius.

Tamo. Where is my Lord the King?

King. Heere Tamora, though grieu'd with killing griefe

Tam. Where is thy brother Ba.s.sia.n.u.s?

King. Now to the bottome dost thou search my wound, Poore Ba.s.sia.n.u.s heere lies murthered

Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatall writ, The complot of this timelesse Tragedie, And wonder greatly that mans face can fold, In pleasing smiles such murderous Tyrannie.

She giueth Saturnine a Letter.

Saturninus reads the Letter. And if we misse to meete him hansomely, Sweet huntsman, Ba.s.sia.n.u.s 'tis we meane, Doe thou so much as dig the graue for him, Thou know'st our meaning, looke for thy reward Among the Nettles at the Elder tree: Which ouer-shades the mouth of that same pit: Where we decreed to bury Ba.s.sia.n.u.ss Doe this and purchase vs thy lasting friends

King. Oh Tamora, was euer heard the like?

This is the pit, and this the Elder tree, Looke sirs, if you can finde the huntsman out, That should haue murthered Ba.s.sia.n.u.s heere

Aron. My gracious Lord heere is the bag of Gold

King. Two of thy whelpes, fell Curs of b.l.o.o.d.y kind Haue heere bereft my brother of his life: Sirs drag them from the pit vnto the prison, There let them bide vntill we haue deuis'd Some neuer heard-of tortering paine for them

Tamo. What are they in this pit, Oh wondrous thing!

How easily murder is discouered?

t.i.t. High Emperour, vpon my feeble knee, I beg this boone, with teares, not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed Sonnes, Accursed, if the faults be prou'd in them

King. If it be prou'd? you see it is apparant, Who found this Letter, Tamora was it you?

Tamora. Andronicus himselfe did take it vp

t.i.t. I did my Lord, Yet let me be their baile, For by my Fathers reuerent Tombe I vow They shall be ready at your Highnes will, To answere their suspition with their liues

King. Thou shalt not baile them, see thou follow me: Some bring the murthered body, some the murtherers, Let them not speake a word, the guilt is plaine, For by my soule, were there worse end then death, That end vpon them should be executed

Tamo. Andronicus I will entreat the King, Feare not thy Sonnes, they shall do well enough

t.i.t. Come Lucius come, Stay not to talke with them.

Exeunt.

Enter the Empresse Sonnes, with Lauinia, her hands cut off and her tongue cut out, and rauisht.

Deme. So now goe tell and if thy tongue can speake, Who t'was that cut thy tongue and rauisht thee

Chi. Write downe thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, And if thy stumpes will let thee play the Scribe

Dem. See how with signes and tokens she can scowle

Chi. Goe home, Call for sweet water, wash thy hands

Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash.

And so let's leaue her to her silent walkes

Chi. And t'were my cause, I should goe hang my selfe

Dem. If thou had'st hands to helpe thee knit the cord.

Exeunt.

Winde Hornes.

Enter Marcus from hunting, to Lauinia.

Who is this, my Neece that flies away so fast?

Cosen a word, where is your husband?

If I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me; If I doe wake, some Planet strike me downe, That I may slumber in eternall sleepe.

Speake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle hands Hath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet Ornaments Whose circkling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleep in And might not gaine so great a happines As halfe thy Loue: Why doost not speake to me?

Alas, a Crimson riuer of warme blood, Like to a bubling fountaine stir'd with winde, Doth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips, Comming and going with thy hony breath.

But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee, And least thou should'st detect them, cut thy tongue.

Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame: And notwithstanding all this losse of blood, As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts, Yet doe thy cheekes looke red as t.i.tans face, Blushing to be encountred with a Cloud, Shall I speake for thee? shall I say 'tis so?

Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast That I might raile at him to ease my mind.

Sorrow concealed, like an Ouen stopt.

Doth burne the hart to Cinders where it is.

Faire Philomela she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious Sampler sowed her minde.

But louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee, A craftier Tereus hast thou met withall, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could haue better sowed then Philomel.

Oh had the monster seene those Lilly hands, Tremble like Aspen leaues vpon a Lute, And make the silken strings delight to kisse them, He would not then haue toucht them for his life.

Or had he heard the heauenly Harmony, Which that sweet tongue hath made: He would haue dropt his knife and fell asleepe, As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete.

Come, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde, For such a sight will blinde a fathers eye.

One houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades, What, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes?

Doe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee: Oh could our mourning ease thy misery.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

Enter the Iudges and Senatours with t.i.tus two sonnes bound, pa.s.sing on the Stage to the place of execution, and t.i.tus going before pleading.

Ti. Heare me graue fathers, n.o.ble Tribunes stay, For pitty of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous warres, whilst you securely slept: For all my blood in Romes great quarrell shed, For all the frosty nights that I haue watcht, And for these bitter teares, which now you see, Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes, Be pittifull to my condemned Sonnes, Whose soules is not corrupted as 'tis thought: For two and twenty sonnes I neuer wept, Because they died in honours lofty bed.

Andronicus lyeth downe, and the Iudges pa.s.se by him.

For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write My harts deepe languor, and my soules sad teares: Let my teares stanch the earths drie appet.i.te.

My sonnes sweet blood, will make it shame and blush: O earth! I will be friend thee more with raine

Exeunt.

That shall distill from these two ancient ruines, Then youthfull Aprill shall with all his showres In summers drought: Ile drop vpon thee still, In Winter with warme teares Ile melt the snow, And keepe eternall spring time on thy face, So thou refuse to drinke my deare sonnes blood.