Act 3 - Scene 2
A room in Titus's house. A banquet set out.
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA and Young LUCIUS, a boy
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
left to tyrannize upon my breast;
Who, when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of
Then thus I thump it down.
Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
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
May run into that sink, and soaking in
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
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,
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:
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
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 practise learn to know thy meaning.
Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
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?
At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.
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