Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,
Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse
An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,
And teares will quickly melt thy life away.
Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.
What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife
Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly
An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,
Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:
A deed of death done on the Innocent
Becoms not Titus brother: get thee gone,
I see thou art not for my company
Mar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie
An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buz lamenting doings in the ayer,
Poore harmelesse Fly,
That with his pretty buzing melody,
Came heere to make vs merry,
And thou hast kil'd him
Mar. Pardon me sir,
It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly,
Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him
An. O, o, o,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a Charitable deed:
Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering my selfe, as if it were the Moore,
Come hither purposely to poyson me.
There's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamora: Ah sirra,
Yet I thinke we are not brought so low,
But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly,
That comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore
Mar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,
He takes false shadowes, for true substances