Writing deftruction on the enemies' cafque ? (10) To ransom my two Nephews from their death; Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand fhall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. Mar. My hand fhall go. Luc. By heav'n, it shall not go, Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as thefe Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.. Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care, Now let me fhew a brother's love to thee. Tit. Agree between you, I will fpare my hand. Mar. But I will ufe the ax. [Exe. Lucius and Marcus. But I'll deceive you in another fort, [Afide. [He cuts off Titus's hand, (10) Which of your Hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody Battle-axe, Writing Deftruction on the Enemies' Caftle ] This is a Paffage, which fhew's a most wonderful Sagacity in our Editors. They could not, fure, intend an Improvement of the Art Military, by teaching us that it was ever a Custom to hew down Caffles with the Battle-Axe. Or could they have a Defign to tell us, that they wore Cafiles formerly on their heads for defenfive Armour? I ventured, fome time ago, to correct the Passage thus; Writing Destruction on the Enemies' Cafk. i. e. an Helmet; from the French Word, une Cafque. A broken k in the Manufcript might easily be mistaken for tl, and thus a Caftle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feifible to split an Helmet with a Battle-ax, than to cut down a Caffle with it, I fhall continue to ftand by my Emendation. K 4 Enter Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dispatch'd: And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Their heads, I mean.-Oh, how this villainy [Afide. Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, [Exit. Tit. O hear! I lift this one hand up to heav'n, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; If any Power pities wretched tears, To that I call :What, wilt thou kneel with me? Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom? When heav'n doth weep, Idoth, not the earth o'erflow ?. I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow; Become Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd: Enter a Messenger, bringing in two heads and a band. Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit. And be my heart an ever-burning hell; Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make fo deep a wound, And yet detefted life not shrink thereat ; Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end ? 4 (11) Ab, now no more will I controll my Griefs;] I read, ----- thy Griefs. Marcus had before perfuaded Titus to be temperate and reftrain the Excefs of bis Sorrows: but now, fays be, that fo miferable an Object is prefented to your Sight as a dear Daughter fo heinously abus'd, e'en indulge your Sorrows till they put an end to your miferable Life. K 5 Rend Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand Mar. Why doft thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. And would ufurp upon my watry eyes, Lavinia, thou fhalt be employed in these things; Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do. [Exeunt . Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father, O, 'would thou wert as thou tofore haft been! But in oblivion and hateful griefs; If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs, And And make proud Saturninus and his Empress To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. [Exit Lucius. SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House. A BANQUET. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy. Tit. CO, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more Than will preserve juft fo much ftrength in us, As will revenge thefe bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine And when my heart, all mad with mifery, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus doft talk in figns! Mar. Fy, brother, fy, teach her not thus to lay Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already? Why, Marcus, no man fhould be mad but I; What violent hands, can the lay on her life? Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hand, To bid Eneas tell the tale twice o'er, How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable? O, handle not the theme: no talk of hands, Left |