Is that the one will help to cut the other :
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!
Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed?
Mar. O, thus I found her ftraying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself; as doth the deer,
That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my deer; and he, that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:
For now I ftand, as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of fea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when fome envious furge
Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone:

Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man;

And here my brother, weeping at my woes.

But that, which gives my foul the greateft fpurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul.

Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body fo?

Thou haft 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, fon 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 lilly almoft wither'd.

Mar. Perchance, the weeps because they kill'd her

husband.

Perchance, because fhe knows them innocent.
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,

Becaufe

Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow, that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,

Or make fome figns how I may do thee ease:
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about fome fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
'Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine ?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb fhows
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further misery,

To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief, See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.

Mar. Patience, dear niece; good Titus, dry thine eyes.
Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her figns;
Had the a tongue to speak, now would the fay
That to her brother which I faid to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as Limbo is from blifs.

Enter Aaron.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyfelf, old Titus,

Or

any one of you, chop off your hand, And fend it to the King; he for the fame

VOL. VI.

L

Will

Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that fhall be the ranfom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,

That gives fweet tidings of the fun's uprife?
With all my heart, I'll fend the Emperor my hand;
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn.
My youth can better spare my blood than you,
And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers lives.

Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax,

Writing deftruction on the enemies cafque? (17)
Oh, none of both but are of high desert :

My hand hath been but idle, let it serve

To ranfom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand fhall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come.

Mar. My hand fhall go.

Luc. By heav'n, it fhall not go.

Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as thefe

(17) Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,

And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,

Writing deftruction on the enemies caftle?] This is a paffage, which shows a most wonderful fagacity in our editors. They could not, fure, intend an improvement of the Art Military, by teaching us that it was ever a cufiom to hew down caftles with the battle-axe. Or could they have a defign to tell us, that they wore caffles formerly on their heads for defenfive armour? There is, indeed, a paffage in Troilus and Creffica, which fuch commentators might alledge in fupport of fuch a wife opinion.

And, Diomede,

Stand faft, and wear a caftle on thy head, &c.

I ventur'd, fome time ago, to correct the paffage thus;

Writing deftruction on the enemies 'cafk,

i. e. an helmet; from the French word, une cafque. A broken k in the manufcript might easily be mistaken for tl, and thus a castle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feifible to split an helmet with a battle-axe, than to cut down a castle with it, I fhall continue to ftand by my emendation.

Are

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy fon,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee.

Tit. Agree between you, I will spare my hand.
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax.

Mar. But I will use the ax. [Exe. Lucius and Marcus.
Tit. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both,
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,
And never, whilst I live, deceive men fo.

But I'll deceive you in another fort,

And that, you'll fay, ere half an hour pass.

[Afide.

[He cuts off Titus's hand.

Enter Lucius and Marcus again.

Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what fhall be, is difpatch'd: Good Aaron, give his Majefty my hand: Tell him, it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it: More hath it merited; that let it have. As for my fons, fay, I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an eafy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Aar. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy fons with thee:

Their heads, I mean.-Oh, how this villany. [Afide.
Doth fat me with the very thought of it!

Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his foul black like his face.

[Exit.

Tit. O hear!- I lift this one hand up to heav'n, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth;

If any power pities wretched tears,

To that I call: What, wilt thou kneel with me?
Do then, dear heart, for heav'n fhall hear our prayers,
Or with our fighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bofoms.
Mar. Oh! brother, fpeak with poffibilities,

L 2

And

And do not break into thefe deep extremes..
Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them.

Mar. But yet let reafon govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reason for thefe miferies,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.

When heav'n doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-fwol'n face?
And wilt thou have a reafon for this coil?
I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my fea be moved with her fighs,
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 lofers will have leave
To eafe their ftomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Meffenger, bringing in two heads and a hand.
Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'st the Emperor;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee fent back';
Thy grief's their fport, thy refolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit.
Mar. Now let hot Etna cool in, Sicily,

And be my heart an ever-burning hell;
Thefe miferies are more than may be borne!

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

Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make fo deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat;

That ever death fhould let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe.
Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless,

As frozen water to a ftarved fnake.

Tit When will this fearful flumber have an end?

Mar.