Rome. Titus’ garden.
(Young Lucius; Lavinia; Titus; Marcus)
Young Lucius, who is carrying his schoolbooks, is being pursued by Lavinia, who will not leave him be and who is terrifying him. Marcus and Titus stop him, certain that Lavinia is trying to say something. Young Lucius admits that he is afraid she may have gone mad and might hurt him. He begs her pardon and promises to help her however he can, so long as Marcus stays with them. Marcus agrees. Lavinia searches through one of the books Young Lucius has let fall, until she finds the tale of Tereus and Philomel, which parallels what happened to her. They now understand just what has been done to her. Marcus realizes that if she held a long staff between her teeth, she could guide it with the stumps of her arms and trace letters in the sands. She does so, revealing the names of her ravishers. The men and the boy swear to avenge her. Titus decides to send his grandson to Chiron and Demetrius with a warning — a gift of weapons. Marcus prays the gods to help revenge the wrongs done to Titus. (130 lines)
Enter Lucius’ Son, and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her, with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus.
Help, grandsire, help! My aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
Stand by me, Lucius, do not fear thine aunt.
She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
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.
Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?
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.
Lucius, I will.
Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall.
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 skill’d;
Come and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?
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.
Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s Metamorphosis,
My mother gave it me.
For love of her that’s gone,
Perhaps, she cull’d it from among the rest.
Soft, so busily she turns the leaves! Help her.
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.
See, brother, see, note how she cotes the leaves.
Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris’d, sweet girl?
Ravish’d and wrong’d as Philomela was,
Forc’d in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt
(O had we never, never hunted there!),
Pattern’d by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.
O why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies?
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?
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.
He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth.
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me. I have writ my name,
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs’d be that heart that forc’d 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?
What, what, the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?
Magni Dominator poli,
Tam lentus audis scelera? Tam lentus vides?
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 dishonored 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.
’Tis sure enough, and 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 northen wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad,
And where’s our lesson then? Boy, what say you?
I say, my lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother’s bedchamber should not be safe
For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
Ay, that’s my boy! Thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.
And, uncle, so will I, and if I live.
Come go with me into mine armory;
Lucius, I’ll fit thee, and withal my boy
Shall 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?
Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.
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.
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 batt’red shield,
But yet so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus!