Titus Page #4

I will trust, by leisure,

him that mocks me once.

Thee never!

Nor thy traitorous,

haughty sons,

confederates all,

thus to dishonor me.

But go thy ways. Go!

A valiant son-in-law

shalt thou enjoy,

one fit to bandy

with thy lawless sons!

And therefore, lovely Tamora,

Queen of Goths,

if thou be pleased

with this my sudden choice,

behold.

I choose thee, Tamora,

for my bride...

and will create thee

empress of Rome.

Speak, Queen of Goths.

Dost thou applaud my choice?

If Saturnine advance

the Queen of Goths,

she will a handmaid be

to his desires,

a loving nurse,

a mother to his youth.

Ascend, fair queen,

to the pantheon.

Lords, accompany

your noble emperor...

and his lovely bride.

There shall we consummate

our spousal rites.

Titus, when wen

thou wont to walk alone,

dishonored thus

and challenged of wrongs?

O Titus, see.

Oh, see what thou hast done-

in a bad quarrel

slain a virtuous son.

No, foolish tribune, no.

No son of mine,

nor thou, nor these,

confederates in the deed that

hath dishonored all our family.

But let us give him

burial as becomes.

Give Mutius burial

with our brethren.

Traitors, away.

He rests not in this tomb.

Here none but soldiers and

Rome's servitors repose in fame-

none basely slain in brawls.

Bury him where you can.

He comes not here.

My lord,

this is impiety in you.

He must be buried

with his brethren.

And shall, or him

we will accompany!

And shall?

What villain was it

spake that word?

He that would vouch it

in any place but here.

What, would you bury him

in my despite?

No, noble Titus,

but entreat of thee to pardon

Mutius and to bury him.

Marcus, even thou has

struck upon my crest...

and, with these boys,

mine honor thou hast wounded.

My foes I do repute you

every one,

so trouble me no more,

but get you gone.

He is not with himself.

Let us withdraw.

Not I, till Mutius'

bones be buried.

Father, and in that name

doth nature speak,

dear father, soul

and substance of us all.

Renowned Titus,

more than half my soul.

Rise, Marcus, rise.

The dismall'st day is this

that e'er I saw,

to be dishonored

by my sons in Rome.

Well, bury him!

And bury me the next.

I'll have another.

Ah!

So, Bassianus,

you have played your prize.

God give you joy, sir,

of your gallant bride.

And you of yours, my lord.

I say no more nor wish no

less, and so I take my leave.

Traitor!

If Rome have law

or we have power,

thou and thy faction

shall repent this rape.

Rape call you it, my lord,

to seize my own, my true-betrothed

love, and now my wife?

But let the laws of Rome

determine all.

Meanwhile, I am possessed

of that is mine.

'Tis good, sir.

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