Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done I give thee thanks in part of thy deferts, Rome's royal mistress, miftrefs of my heart, Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee ? Tit. Now, Madam, are you prifoner to an Emperor, To him that for your honour and your state Will ufe you nobly, and your followers. ! Sat. A goodly Lady, truft me, of the hue [To Tamora. That I would chufe, were I to chufe a-new: Clear up, fair Queen, that cloudy countenance; Tho' chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Princely fhall be thy ufage every way. Reft on my word, and let not difcontent Daunt all your hopes: Madam, who comforts you Warrants these words in princely courtefie. Ran Ranfomlefs here we fet our prifoners free; [Seixing Lavinia, Tit. How, Sir? are you in earnest then, my Lord ? Baf. Ay noble Titus; and refolv'd withal, To do my felf this reafon and this right. [The Emperor courts Tamora in dumb fhew. Mar. Suum cuique is our Roman juftice: This prince in justice seizeth but his own. Luc. And that he will, and fhall, if Lucius live. Tit. Traitors, avant! where is the Emperor's guard ? Treafon, my Lord; Lavinia is furpriz'd. Sat. Surpriz'd! by whom? Baf. By him that juftly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. Exit Baffianus with Lavinia. SCENE IV. Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my fword I'll keep this door fecure. Tit. Follow, my Lord, and I'll foon bring her back. Tit. What! villain-boy, Barr'ft me my way in Rome? Mut. Help, Lucius, help. [He kills him. Luc. My Lord, you are unjust, and more than so, In wrongful quarrel you have flain your fon. My fons would never so dishonour me. Luc. Dead, if you will, but not to be his wife, Sat. No, Titus, no, the Emperor needs her not, B 3 That That faid't, I begg'd the empire at thy hands. Tit. O monftrous! what reproachful words are thefe ? Sat. But go thy ways; go give that changing piece, To him that flourish'd for her with his fword; A valiant fon-in-law thou fhalt enjoy : One fit to bandy with thy lawless fons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome: Tit. These words are razors to my wounded heart. I will not re-falute the ftreets of Rome, I lead efpous'd my bride along with me. Tam. And here in fight of heav'n to Rome I fwear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his defires, A loving nurfe, a mother to his youth. Sat. Afcend, fair Queen, Pantheon; Lords, accompany Your noble Emperor, and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered : There fhall we confummate our spousal rites. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Manet Titus Andronicus. Enter Marcus Andronicus, Lucius, Quintus, and Marcus In a bad quarrel flain a virtuous fon. Tit. No, foolifh Tribune, no: no son of mine, Nor thou, nor thefe confederates in the deed, That That hath dishonour'd all our family; Luc. But let us give him burial as becomes, Tit. Traitors, away! he refts not in this tomb Here none but foldiers, and Rome's fervitors Sons. And fhall, or him we will accompany. To pardon Mutius, and to bury him. Tit. Marcus, ev'n thou haft ftruck upon my creft, And with these boys mine honour thou haft wounded. My foes I do repute you every one, So trouble me no more, but get you gone. Luc. He is not well himself, let us withdraw. [The brother and the foss kneel. Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy, Tit. Rife, Marcus, rife The difmall'ft day is this that e'er I faw, [They put him in the Tomb. Luc. There lye thy bones, fweet Mutius, with thy friends, 'Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb! [They all kneel, and say, No man fhed tears for noble Mutius! He lives in fame, that died in virtue's cause. Mar. My Lord, to ftep out of thefe dreary dumps, How comes it that the fubtle Queen of Goths Is of a fudden thus advanc'd in Rome? Tit. I know not, Marcus; but I know it is: That brought her for this high good turn fo far? Flourish. Enter the Emperor, Tamora, Chiron, and Demetrius, with the Moor at one door. At the other door Baffianus and Lavinia with others. Sat. So, Baffianus, you have plaid your prize; God give you joy, Sir, of your gallant bride! Baf. And you of yours, my Lord; I fay no more, Nor wifh no lefs, and fo I take my leave. Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power, Baf. Rape call you it, my Lord, to feize my own, Sat. 'Tis good, Sir; you are very short with us, |