LITMIR.BIZ

         Tit. O monstrous, what reproachfull words are these?

        Sat. But goe thy wayes, goe giue that changing peece,

      To him that flourisht for her with his Sword:

      A Valliant sonne in-law thou shalt enioy:

      One, fit to bandy with thy lawlesse Sonnes,

      To ruffle in the Common-wealth of Rome

      Tit. These words are Razors to my wounded hart

         Sat. And therefore louely Tamora Queene of Gothes,

      That like the stately Thebe mong'st her Nimphs

      Dost ouer-shine the Gallant'st Dames of Rome,

      If thou be pleas'd with this my sodaine choyse,

      Behold I choose thee Tamora for my Bride,

      And will Create thee Empresse of Rome.

      Speake Queene of Goths dost thou applau'd my choyse?

      And heere I sweare by all the Romaine Gods,

      Sith Priest and Holy-water are so neere,

      And Tapers burne so bright, and euery thing

      In readines for Hymeneus stand,

      I will not resalute the streets of Rome,

      Or clime my Pallace, till from forth this place,

      I leade espous'd my Bride along with me

         Tamo. And heere in sight of heauen to Rome I sweare,

      If Saturnine aduance the Queen of Gothes,

      Shee will a Hand-maid be to his desires,

      A louing Nurse, a Mother to his youth

         Satur. Ascend Faire Queene,

      Panthean Lords, accompany

      Your Noble Emperour and his louely Bride,

      Sent by the heauens for Prince Saturnine,

      Whose wisedome hath her Fortune Conquered,

      There shall we Consummate our Spousall rites.

        Tit. I am not bid to waite vpon this Bride:

      Titus when wer't thou wont to walke alone,

      Dishonoured thus and Challenged of wrongs?

        Mar. O Titus see! O see what thou hast done!

      In a bad quarrell, slaine a Vertuous sonne

         Tit. No foolish Tribune, no: No sonne of mine,

      Nor thou, nor these Confedrates in the deed,

      That hath dishonoured all our Family,

      Vnworthy brother, and vnworthy Sonnes

         Luci. But let vs giue him buriall as becomes:

      Giue Mutius buriall with our Bretheren

         Tit. Traytors away, he rest's not in this Tombe:

      This Monument fiue hundreth yeares hath stood,

      Which I haue Sumptuously re-edified.

      Heere none but Souldiers, and Romes Seruitors,

      Repose in Fame: None basely slaine in braules,

      Bury him where you can, he comes not heere

         Mar. My Lord this is impiety in you,

      My Nephew Mutius deeds do plead for him,

      He must be buried with his bretheren

      Titus two Sonnes speakes. And shall, or him we will accompany

         Ti. And shall! What villaine was it spake that word?

        Titus sonne speakes. He that would vouch'd it in any place but

      heere

         Tit. What would you bury him in my despight?

        Mar. No Noble Titus, but intreat of thee,

      To pardon Mutius, and to bury him

         Tit. Marcus, Euen thou hast stroke vpon my Crest,

      And with these Boyes mine Honour thou hast wounded,

      My foes I doe repute you euery one.

      So trouble me no more, but get you gone

      1. Sonne. He is not himselfe, let vs withdraw

      2. Sonne. Not I tell Mutius bones be buried.

      The Brother and the sonnes kneele.

      Mar. Brother, for in that name doth nature plea'd

      2. Sonne. Father, and in that name doth nature speake

      Tit. Speake thou no more if all the rest will speede

      Mar. Renowned Titus more then halfe my soule

      Luc. Deare Father, soule and substance of vs all

         Mar. Suffer thy brother Marcus to interre

      His Noble Nephew heere in vertues nest,

      That died in Honour and Lauinia's cause.

      Thou art a Romaine, be not barbarous:

      The Greekes vpon aduise did bury Aiax

      That slew himselfe: And Laertes sonne,

      Did graciously plead for his Funerals:

      Let not young Mutius then that was thy ioy,

      Be bar'd his entrance heere

         Tit. Rise Marcus, rise,

      The dismall'st day is this that ere I saw,

      To be dishonored by my Sonnes in Rome:

      Well, bury him, and bury me the next.

      They put him in the Tombe.

        Luc. There lie thy bones sweet Mutius with thy friends.

      Till we with Trophees do adorne thy Tombe.

      They all kneele and say.

      No man shed teares for Noble Mutius,

      He liues in Fame, that di'd in vertues cause.

        Mar. My Lord to step out of these sudden dumps,

      How comes it that the subtile Queene of Gothes,

      Is of a sodaine thus aduanc'd in Rome?

        Ti. I know not Marcus: but I know it is,

      (Whether by deuise or no) the heauens can tell,

      Is she not then beholding to the man,

      That brought her for this high good turne so farre?

      Yes, and will Nobly him remunerate.