Titus Andronicus. Уильям Шекспир

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         Tit. I giue him you, the Noblest that Suruiues,

      The eldest Son of this distressed Queene

         Tam. Stay Romaine Bretheren, gracious Conqueror,

      Victorious Titus, rue the teares I shed,

      A Mothers teares in passion for her sonne:

      And if thy Sonnes were euer deere to thee,

      Oh thinke my sonnes to be as deere to mee.

      Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome

      To beautifie thy Triumphs, and returne

      Captiue to thee, and to thy Romaine yoake,

      But must my Sonnes be slaughtred in the streetes,

      For Valiant doings in their Countries cause?

      O! If to fight for King and Common-weale,

      Were piety in thine, it is in these:

      Andronicus, staine not thy Tombe with blood.

      Wilt thou draw neere the nature of the Gods?

      Draw neere them then in being mercifull.

      Sweet mercy is Nobilities true badge,

      Thrice Noble Titus, spare my first borne sonne

         Tit. Patient your selfe Madam, and pardon me.

      These are the Brethren, whom you Gothes beheld

      Aliue and dead, and for their Bretheren slaine,

      Religiously they aske a sacrifice:

      To this your sonne is markt, and die he must,

      T' appease their groaning shadowes that are gone

         Luc. Away with him, and make a fire straight,

      And with our Swords vpon a pile of wood,

      Let's hew his limbes till they be cleane consum'd.

      Tamo. O cruell irreligious piety

         Chi. Was euer Scythia halfe so barbarous?

        Dem. Oppose me Scythia to ambitious Rome,

      Alarbus goes to rest, and we suruiue,

      To tremble vnder Titus threatning lookes.

      Then Madam stand resolu'd, but hope withall,

      The selfe same Gods that arm'd the Queene of Troy

      With opportunitie of sharpe reuenge

      Vpon the Thracian Tyrant in his Tent,

      May fauour Tamora the Queene of Gothes,

      (When Gothes were Gothes, and Tamora was Queene)

      To quit the bloody wrongs vpon her foes.

      Enter the Sonnes of Andronicus againe.

        Luci. See Lord and Father, how we haue perform'd

      Our Romaine rightes, Alarbus limbs are lopt,

      And intrals feede the sacrifising fire,

      Whole smoke like incense doth perfume the skie.

      Remaineth nought but to interre our Brethren,

      And with low'd Larums welcome them to Rome

         Tit. Let it be so, and let Andronicus

      Make this his latest farewell to their Soules.

      Flourish.

      Then Sound Trumpets, and lay the Coffins in the Tombe.

      In peace and Honour rest you heere my Sonnes,

      Romes readiest Champions, repose you heere in rest,

      Secure from worldly chaunces and mishaps:

      Heere lurks no Treason, heere no enuie swels,

      Heere grow no damned grudges, heere are no stormes,

      No noyse, but silence and Eternall sleepe,

      In peace and Honour rest you heere my Sonnes.

        Laui. In peace and Honour, liue Lord Titus long,

      My Noble Lord and Father, liue in Fame:

      Loe at this Tombe my tributarie teares,

      I render for my Bretherens Obsequies:

      And at thy feete I kneele, with teares of ioy

      Shed on the earth for thy returne to Rome.

      O blesse me heere with thy victorious hand,

      Whose Fortune Romes best Citizens applau'd

         Ti. Kind Rome,

      That hast thus louingly reseru'd

      The Cordiall of mine age to glad my hart,

      Lauinia liue, out-liue thy Fathers dayes:

      And Fames eternall date for vertues praise

         Marc. Long liue Lord Titus, my beloued brother,

      Gracious Triumpher in the eyes of Rome

         Tit. Thankes Gentle Tribune,

      Noble brother Marcus

         Mar. And welcome Nephews from succesfull wars,

      You that suruiue and you that sleepe in Fame:

      Faire Lords your Fortunes are all alike in all,

      That in your Countries seruice drew your Swords.

      But safer Triumph is this Funerall Pompe,

      That hath aspir'd to Solons Happines,

      And Triumphs ouer chaunce in honours bed.

      Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,

      Whose friend in iustice thou hast euer bene,

      Send thee by me their Tribune and their trust,

      This Palliament of white and spotlesse Hue,

      And name thee in Election for the Empire,

      With these our late deceased Emperours Sonnes:

      Be Candidatus then, and put it on,

      And helpe to set a head on headlesse Rome

         Tit. A better head her Glorious body fits,

      Then his that shakes for age and feeblenesse:

      What should I don this Robe and trouble you,

      Be chosen with proclamations to day,

      To morrow yeeld vp rule, resigne my life,

      And set abroad new businesse for you all.

      Rome I haue bene thy Souldier forty yeares,

      And led my Countries strength successefully,

      And buried one and twenty Valiant Sonnes,

      Knighted in Field, slaine manfully in Armes,

      In right and Seruice of their Noble Countrie:

      Giue me a staffe of Honour for mine age,

      But not a Scepter to controule the world,

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