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

Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

Who when my heart, all mad with misery,

Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.

Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs,

When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,

Thou 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 let fall

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.

What violent hands can she lay on her life?

Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands,

To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er

How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?

O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,

Lest we remember still that we have none.

Fie, fie, how frantically 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.

Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says;

I can interpret all her martyred signs.

She says she drinks no other drink but tears,

Brewed with her sorrow, meshed upon her cheeks.

Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;

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 practice 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.

What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.

Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart;

Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny;

A deed of death done on the innocent

Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone;

I see thou art not for my company.

Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly.

“But”? How if that fly had a father and mother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings

And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him.

Pardon me, sir; ’twas a black ill-favoured fly,

Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I killed him.

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,

Flattering myself as if it were the Moor

Come hither purposely to poison me.

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora.

Ah, sirrah!

Yet, I think, we are not brought so low

But that between us we can kill a fly

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him,

He takes false shadows for true substances.

Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me.

I’ll to thy closet, and go read with thee

Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

Come, boy, and go with me. Thy sight is young,

And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.