Mar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands vppon her tender life

An. How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already? Why Marcus, no man should be mad but I: What violent hands can she lay on her life: Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands, To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice ore How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O handle not the theame, to talke of hands, Least we remember still that we haue none, Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke As if we should forget we had no hands: If Marcus did not name the word of hands. Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this, Heere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies, I can interpret all her martir'd signes, She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes, Speechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought: In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect As begging Hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen, Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe; But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet, And by still practice, learne to know thy meaning

Boy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments, Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale

Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd, Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse

An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares, And teares will quickly melt thy life away.

Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.

What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife

Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart, Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie: A deed of death done on the Innocent Becoms not Titus brother: get thee gone, I see thou art not for my company

Mar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie

An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buz lamenting doings in the ayer, Poore harmelesse Fly, That with his pretty buzing melody, Came heere to make vs merry, And thou hast kil'd him

Mar. Pardon me sir, It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly, Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him

An. O, o, o, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a Charitable deed: Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering my selfe, as if it were the Moore, Come hither purposely to poyson me. There's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamora: Ah sirra, Yet I thinke we are not brought so low, But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly, That comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore

Mar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him, He takes false shadowes, for true substances

An. Come, take away: Lauinia, goe with me, Ile to thy closset, and goe read with thee Sad stories, chanced in the times of old. Come boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young, And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.


William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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