Rome. Titus's Garden.
 Enter BOY, young Lucius, and LAVINIA running after him;
 and the BOY flies from her with his books under his arm.
 Enter TITUS and MARCUS.

Boy	[Dropping the books.]
	Help, grandsire, help! My aunt Lavinia
	Follows me everywhere, I know not why.
	Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.
	Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Marcus	Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

Titus	She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Boy	Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.

Marcus	What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

Titus	Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean.
	See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee:
	Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
	Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
	Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee
	Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.

Marcus	Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy	My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
	Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her;
	For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
	Extremity of griefs would make men mad,
	And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
	Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear,
	Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
	Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
	And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;
	Which made me down to throw my books and fly,
	Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;
	And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
	I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

Marcus	Lucius, I will.
									 [LAVINIA turns over the books
										which Lucius has let fall.

Titus	How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?
	Some book there is that she desires to see.
	Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.
	But thou art deeper read, and better skilled;
	Come, and take choice of all my library,
	And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
	Reveal the damned contriver of this deed.
	Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Marcus	I think she means that there were more than one
	Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was;
	Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

Titus	Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

Young	Lucius Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses.
	My mother gave it me.

Marcus							For love of her that's gone,
	Perhaps, she culled it from among the rest.

Titus	Soft, so busily she turns the leaves!
	What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?
	This is the tragic tale of Philomel,
	And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;
	And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy.

Marcus	See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves.

Titus	Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl,
	Ravished and wronged, as Philomela was,
	Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
	See, see!
	Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt-
	O, had we never, never hunted there-
	Patterned by that the poet here describes,
	By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Marcus	O, why should nature build so foul a den,
	Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Titus	Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,
	What Roman lord it was durst do the deed;
	Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
	That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?

Marcus	Sit down, sweet niece. Brother, sit down by me.
	Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
	Inspire me that I may this treason find!
	My lord, look here; look here, Lavinia:
	This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
	This after me.
							   [He writes his name with his staff,
								and guides it with feet and mouth.

						I have writ my name
	Without the help of any hand at all.
	Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift!
	Write thou, good niece, and here display at last
	What God will have discovered for revenge.
	Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
	That we may know the traitors and the truth!
								[She takes the staff in her mouth,
						and guides it with her stumps, and writes.

	O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?

Titus	Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.

Marcus	What, what! The lustful sons of Tamora
	Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Titus	Magni dominator poli,
	Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides? 

Marcus	O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know
	There is enough written upon this earth
	To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts
	And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
	My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
	And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
	And swear with me - as with the woeful fere
	And father of that chaste dishonoured dame,
	Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape-
	That we will prosecute by good advice
	Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
	And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Titus	'Tis sure enough, an you knew how.
	But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:
	The dam will wake, and if she wind ye once,
	She's with the lion deeply still in league,
	And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
	And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
	You are a young huntsman, Marcus, let alone;
	And come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
	And with a gad of steel will write these words,
	And lay it by. The angry northern wind
	Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad,
	And where's our lesson then? Boy, what say you?

Boy	I say, my lord, that if I were a man
	Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe
	For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.

Marcus	Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft
	For his ungrateful country done the like.

Boy	And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

Titus	Come, go with me into mine armoury.
	Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy,
	Shalt carry from me to the empress' sons
	Presents that I intend to send them both.
	Come, come, thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not?

Boy	Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.

Titus	No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.
	Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house.
	Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court;
	Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on.
								   [Exeunt TITUS, LAVINIA and BOY.

Marcus	O, heavens, can you hear a good man groan
	And not relent or not compassion him?
	Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,
	That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart
	Than foemen's marks upon his battered shield,
	But yet so just that he will not revenge.
	Revenge, the heavens, for old Andronicus!
													[Exit.
