At that that I have killed, my lord—a fly.

TITUS

Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart.

Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny.

A deed of death done on the innocent

Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone.

I see thou art not for my company.

MARCUS

Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly.

TITUS

‘But’? How if that fly had a father, brother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings

And buzz lamenting dirges in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That with his pretty buzzing melody

Came here to make us merry—and thou hast killed him!

MARCUS

Pardon me, sir, it was a black ill-favoured fly,

Like to the Empress’ Moor. Therefore I killed him.

TITUS O, O, O!

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife. I will insult on him,

Flattering myself as if it were the Moor

Come hither purposely to poison me.

He takes a knife and strikes

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora. Ah, sirrah!

Yet I think we are not brought so low

But that between us we can kill a fly

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

MARCUS

Alas, poor man! Grief has so wrought on him

He takes false shadows for true substances.

TITUS

Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me.

I’ll to thy closet and go read with thee

Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

Come, boy, and go with me. Thy sight is young,

And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.

Exeunt

4.1 Enter Lucius’ son and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus

YOUNG LUCIUS

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.

⌈He drops his books⌉

MARCUS

Stand by me, Lucius. Do not fear thine aunt.

TITUS

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

YOUNG LUCIUS

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. ⌈MARCUS⌉

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?

YOUNG LUCIUS

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 the books over with her stumps

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.

(To Lavinia) 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.

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.

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.

They sit

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury

Inspire me, that I may this treason find.

My lord, look here. Look here, Lavinia.