The Bodleian First Folio

A digital facsimile of the First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Bodleian Arch. G c.7.



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Reference: dd3v - Tragedies, p. 42

Left Column


The Lamentable Tragedie of Titus Andronicus. Then be my passions bottomlesse with them. Mar.

But yet let reason gouerne thy lament.

Titus. If there were reason for these miseries,
[1295]
Then into limits could I binde my woes: When heauen doth weepe, doth not the earth oreflow? If the windes rage, doth not the Sea wax mad, Threatning the welkin with his big‑swolne face? And wilt thou haue a reason for this coile?
[1300]
I am the Sea. Harke how her sighes doe flow: Shee is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my Sea be moued with her sighes, Then must my earth with her continuall teares, Become a deluge: ouerflow'd and drown'd:
[1305]
For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them: Then giue me leaue, for loosers will haue leaue, To ease their stomackes with their bitter tongues,
Enter a messenger with two heads and a hand. Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid,
[1310]
For that good hand thou sentst the Emperour: Heere are the heads of thy two noble sonnes. And heeres thy hand in scorne to thee sent backe: Thy griefes, their sports: Thy resolution mockt, That woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes,
[1315]
More then remembrance of my fathers death.
Exit. Marc. Now let hot ætna coole in Cicilie, And be my heart an euer‑burning hell: These miseries are more then may be borne. To weepe with them that weepe, doth ease some deale,
[1320]
But sorrow flouted at, is double death.
Luci. Ah that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrinke thereat: That euer death should let life beare his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breath. Mar.
[1325]
Alas poore hart that kisse is comfortlesse, As frozen water to a starued snake.
Titus.

When will this fearefull slumber haue an end?

Mar. Now farwell flatterie, die Andronicus, Thou dost not slumber, see thy two sons heads,
[1330]
Thy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here: Thy other banisht sonnes with this deere sight Strucke pale and bloodlesse, and thy brother I, Euen like a stony Image, cold and numme. Ah now no more will I controule my griefes,
[1335]
Rent off thy siluer haire, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismall sight The closing vp of our most wretched eyes: Now is a time to storme, why art thou still?
Titus.

Ha, ha, ha,

Mar.
[1340]

Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this houre.

Ti. Why I haue not another teare to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would vsurpe vpon my watry eyes, And make them blinde with tributarie teares.
[1345]
Then which way shall I finde Reuenges Caue? For these two heads doe seeme to speake to me, And threat me, I shall neuer come to blisse, Till all these mischiefes be returned againe, Euen in their throats that haue committed them.
[1350]
Come let me see what taske I haue to doe, You heauie people, circle me about, That I may turne me to each one of you, And sweare vnto my soule to right your wrongs. The vow is made, come Brother take a head,

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Right Column


[1355]
And in this hand the other will I beare. And Lauinia thou shalt be employd in these things: Beare thou my hand sweet wench betweene thy teeth: As for thee boy, goe get thee from my sight, Thou art an Exile, and thou must not stay,
[1360]
Hie to the Gothes, and raise an army there, And if you loue me, as I thinke you doe, Let's kisse and part, for we haue much to doe.
Exeunt. Manet Lucius. Luci. Farewell Andronicus my noble Father: The woful'st man that euer liu'd in Rome:
[1365]
Farewell proud Rome, til Lucius come againe, He loues his pledges dearer then his life: Farewell Lauinia my noble sister, O would thou wert as thou to fore hast beene, But now, nor Lucius nor Lauinia liues
[1370]
But in obliuion and hateful griefes: If Lucius liue, he will requit your wrongs, And make proud Saturnine and his Empresse Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queene. Now will I to the Gothes and raise a power,
[1375]
To be reueng'd on Rome and Saturnine.
Exit Lucius
[Act 3, Scene 2] A Banket. Enter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy. An. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus vnknit that sorrow‑wreathen knot:
[1380]
Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe, With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine, Is left to tirranize vppon my breast. Who when my hart all mad with misery,
[1385]
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thumpe it downe. Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes, When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still?
[1390]
Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones: Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth, And iust against thy hart make thou a hole, That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall May run into that sinke, and soaking in,
[1395]
Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares.
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:
[1400]
What violent hands can she lay on her life: Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands, To bid æneas tell the tale twice ore How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O handle not the theame, to talke of hands,
[1405]
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,
[1410]
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, Speech

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[Act 3, Scene 2] A Banket. Enter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy. An. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus vnknit that sorrow‑wreathen knot:
[1380]
Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe, With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine, Is left to tirranize vppon my breast. Who when my hart all mad with misery,
[1385]
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thumpe it downe. Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes, When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still?
[1390]
Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones: Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth, And iust against thy hart make thou a hole, That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall May run into that sinke, and soaking in,
[1395]
Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares.
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:
[1400]
What violent hands can she lay on her life: Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands, To bid æneas tell the tale twice ore How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O handle not the theame, to talke of hands,
[1405]
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,
[1410]
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 complaynet complayner , I will learne thy thought:
[1415]
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,
[1420]
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.
[1425]
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 Flys

An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart, Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:
[1430]
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?
[1435]
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,
[1440]
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,
[1445]
Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a Charitable deed: Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering my selfes, as if it were the Moore, Come hither purposely to poyson me.
[1450]
There's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamira: 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,
[1455]
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,
[1460]
And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.
Exeunt
 

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<div type="scene" n="2" rend="notPresent">
   <head type="supplied">[Act 3, Scene 2]</head>
   <stage rend="italic center" type="entrance">A Banket.
      <lb/>Enter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy.</stage>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1376">So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more</l>
      <l n="1377">Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs</l>
      <l n="1378">As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours.</l>
      <l n="1379">
         <hi rend="italic">Marcus</hi>vnknit that sorrow‑wreathen knot:</l>
      <l n="1380">Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands</l>
      <l n="1381">And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe,</l>
      <l n="1382">With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine,</l>
      <l n="1383">Is left to tirranize vppon my breast.</l>
      <l n="1384">Who when my hart all mad with misery,</l>
      <l n="1385">Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,</l>
      <l n="1386">Then thus I thumpe it downe.</l>
      <l n="1387">Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes,</l>
      <l n="1388">When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating,</l>
      <l n="1389">Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still?</l>
      <l n="1390">Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones:</l>
      <l n="1391">Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth,</l>
      <l n="1392">And iust against thy hart make thou a hole,</l>
      <l n="1393">That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall</l>
      <l n="1394">May run into that sinke, and soaking in,</l>
      <l n="1395">Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <l n="1396">Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay</l>
      <l n="1397">Such violent hands vppon her tender life.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1398">How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already?</l>
      <l n="1399">Why<hi rend="italic">Marcus</hi>, no man should be mad but I:</l>
      <l n="1400">What violent hands can she lay on her life:</l>
      <l n="1401">Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands,</l>
      <l n="1402">To bid<hi rend="italic">æneas</hi>tell the tale twice ore</l>
      <l n="1403">How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?</l>
      <l n="1404">O handle not the theame, to talke of hands,</l>
      <l n="1405">Least we remember still that we haue none,</l>
      <l n="1406">Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke</l>
      <l n="1407">As if we should forget we had no hands:</l>
      <l n="1408">If<hi rend="italic">Marcus</hi>did not name the word of hands.</l>
      <l n="1409">Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this,</l>
      <l n="1410">Heere is no drinke? Harke<hi rend="italic">Marcus</hi>what she saies,</l>
      <l n="1411">I can interpret all her martir'd signes,</l>
      <l n="1412">She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares</l>
      <l n="1413">Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes,</l>
      <pb facs="FFimg:axc0661-0.jpg" n="43"/>
      <cb n="1"/>
      <l n="1414">Speechlesse<choice>
            <orig>complaynet</orig>
            <corr>complayner</corr>
         </choice>, I will learne thy thought:</l>
      <l n="1415">In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect</l>
      <l n="1416">As begging Hermits in their holy prayers.</l>
      <l n="1417">Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen,</l>
      <l n="1418">Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe;</l>
      <l n="1419">But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet,</l>
      <l n="1420">And by still practice, learne to know thy meaning.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-ylu">
      <speaker rend="italic">Boy.</speaker>
      <l n="1421">Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,</l>
      <l n="1422">Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <l n="1423">Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,</l>
      <l n="1424">Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1425">Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,</l>
      <l n="1426">And teares will quickly melt thy life away.</l>
   </sp>
   <stage type="business" rend="italic center">Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.</stage>
   <p>What doest thou strike at<hi rend="italic">Marcus</hi>with knife.</p>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <p n="1427">At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Flys</p>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1428">Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,</l>
      <l n="1429">Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:</l>
      <l n="1430">A deed of death done on the Innocent</l>
      <l n="1431">Becoms not<hi rend="italic">Titus</hi>brother: get thee gone,</l>
      <l n="1432">I see thou art not for my company.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <p n="1433">Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie.</p>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1434">But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?</l>
      <l n="1435">How would he hang his slender gilded wings</l>
      <l n="1436">And buz lamenting doings in the ayer,</l>
      <l n="1437">Poore harmelesse Fly,</l>
      <l n="1438">That with his pretty buzing melody,</l>
      <l n="1439">Came heere to make vs merry,</l>
      <l n="1440">And thou hast kil'd him.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <l n="1441">Pardon me sir,</l>
      <l n="1442">It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly,</l>
      <l n="1443">Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1444">O, o, o,</l>
      <l n="1445">Then pardon me for reprehending thee,</l>
      <l n="1446">For thou hast done a Charitable deed:</l>
      <l n="1447">Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him,</l>
      <l n="1448">Flattering my selfes, as if it were the Moore,</l>
      <l n="1449">Come hither purposely to poyson me.</l>
      <l n="1450">There's for thy selfe, and thats for<hi rend="italic">Tamira</hi>: Ah sirra,</l>
      <l n="1451">Yet I thinke we are not brought so low,</l>
      <l n="1452">But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly,</l>
      <l n="1453">That comes in likenesse of a Cole‑blacke Moore.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-mrc">
      <speaker rend="italic">Mar.</speaker>
      <l n="1454">Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,</l>
      <l n="1455">He takes false shadowes, for true substances.</l>
   </sp>
   <sp who="#F-tit-and">
      <speaker rend="italic">An.</speaker>
      <l n="1456">Come, take away:<hi rend="italic">Lauinia</hi>, goe with me,</l>
      <l n="1457">Ile to thy closset, and goe read with thee</l>
      <l n="1458">Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.</l>
      <l n="1459">Come boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young,</l>
      <l n="1460">And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.</l>
   </sp>
   <stage rend="italic rightJustified" type="exit">Exeunt</stage>
   <cb n="1"/>
</div>

        
        

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