Titus

Okay, on your toes, men.

Hi-ho, silver!

Hey, we got to save Olive Oyl!

Whoo-whoo! Whoo! Waah! Waah!

Hail, Rome!

Victorious...

in thy mourning weeds!

Lo, as the bark that hath

discharged her freight...

returns with precious

lading to the bay...

from whence at first

she weighed her Anchorage,

cometh Andronicus,

bound with laurel boughs,

to re-salute his country

with his tears.

Stand gracious to the rites

that we intend!

Romans,

of five and 20 valiant sons,

behold the poor remains,

alive and dead.

These that survive,

let Rome reward with love.

These that I bring

unto their latest home...

with burial amongst

their ancestors.

Here Goths have given me leave

to sheathe my sword.

Titus, unkind and careless

of thine own,

why suffer'st thou thy sons,

unburied yet,

to hover on the dreadful

shore of Styx?

Make way to lay them

by their brethren!

O sacred receptacle of my joys,

sweet cell of virtue

and nobility,

how many sons of mine

hast thou in store...

that thou wilt never

render to me more?

And there greet in silence,

as the dead are wont,

and sleep in peace,

slain in your country's wars.

Give us the proudest

prisoner of the Goths...

that we may hew his limbs,

and on a pile-

Ad manes fiatrum.

Sacrifice his flesh.

That so the shadows

be not unappeased,

nor we disturbed

with prodigies on earth.

I give him you,

the noblest that survives:

The eldest son

of this distressed queen.

No! Stay, Roman brethren!

Gracious conqueror,

victorious Titus,

rue the tears I shed-

the mother's tears

in passion for her son.

No!

If thy sons were

ever dear to thee,

oh, think my son to be

as dear to me.

Sufficeth not that

we are brought to Rome...

to beautify your triumphs

and return,

captive to thee

and thy Roman yoke?

But must my sons

be slaughtered in the streets...

for valiant doings

in their country's cause?

Oh, if to fight for king and

commonweal were piety in thine,

it is in these.

Andronicus,

stain not thy tomb with blood.

Wilt thou draw near

the nature of the gods?

Draw near them then

in being merciful.

Sweet mercy

is nobility's true badge.

Thrice noble Titus-

Spare my first-born son.

Patient yourself, madam,

and pardon me.

These are their brethren,

whom your Goths beheld...

alive and dead,

and for their brethren slain,

religiously they ask a sacrifice.

To this your son is marked-

Oh!

And die he must to appease

their groaning shadows that are gone.

Away with him and

make a fire straight.

And with our swords,

upon a pile of wood...

let's hew his limbs

till they be clean consumed.

O cruel, irreligious piety!

Was ever Scythia

half so barbarous?

Oppose not Scythia

to ambitious Rome.

Alarbus goes to rest,

and we survive to tremble

under Titus' threatening looks.

Stand resolved,

but hope withal the gods

may favor Tamora,

the Queen of Goths,

to quit these bloody wrongs

upon her foes.

See, lord and father, how we

have performed our Roman rites.

Alarbus' limbs are lopped,

and entrails feed

the sacrificing fire.

Remaineth not,

but to inter our brethren...

and with loud alarums

welcome them to Rome.

In peace and honor

rest you here, my sons,

secure from worldly

chances and mishaps.

Here lurks no treason.

Here no envy swells.

Here grow no damned drugs.

Here are no storms,

no noise,

but silence and eternal sleep.

In peace and honor

rest you here, my sons.

In peace and honor

live Lord Titus long.

My noble lord and father,

live in fame.

Lo, at this tomb

my tributary tears I render...

for my brethren's obsequies.

And at thy feet I kneel,

with tears of joy...

shed on the earth

for thy return to Rome.

Bless me here

with thy victorious hand.

Kind Rome, that hast

thus lovingly reserved...

the cordial of mine age

to glad my heart.

Lavinia, live.

Outlive thy father's days

and fame's eternal date,

for virtue's praise.

Noble patricians,

patrons of my right,

defend the justice

of my cause with arms!

And, countrymen,

my loving followers,

plead my successive title

with your swords!

Romans, friends, followers,

favorers of my right,

if ever Bassianus,

Caesar's son,

were gracious in the eyes

of royal Rome,

keep, then, this passage

to the capitol.

I am the first-born son!

That was the last that wear

the imperial diadem of Rome.

And suffer not dishonor

to approach the imperial seat:

To virtue, consecrate,

to justice, continence,

and nobility!

Then let my father's

honors live in me!

Nor wrong mine age

with this indignity!

But let desert

in pure election shine,

and, Romans, fight for

freedom in your choice.

Princes...

that strive by factions

and by friends ambitiously...

for rule and empery.

Know that the people of Rome

have by common voice...

in election for the Roman

empery chosen Andronicus.

A nobler man,

a braver warrior, lives not

this day within the city walls.

He by the senate is accited home

from weary wars...

against the barbarous Goths.

Let us entreat,

by honor of his name,

that you withdraw you,

dismiss your followers,

and, as suitors should,

plead your deserts in peace...

and humbleness.

Marcus Andronicus,

so I do rely on

thy uprightness and integrity,

and so I love and honor

thee and thine-

thy noble brother Titus

and his sons...

and her to whom my thoughts

are humbled all,

gracious Lavinia,

Rome's rich ornament-

that I will here dismiss

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