LUCIUS.
Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down so many enemies,
Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn.
My youth can better spare my blood than you;
And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.
MARCUS.
Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
And reared aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle?
O, none of both but are of high desert.
My hand hath been but idle; let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
AARON.
Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.
MARCUS.
My hand shall go.
LUCIUS.
By heaven, it shall not go!
TITUS.
Sirs, strive no more. Such withered herbs as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
LUCIUS.
Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
MARCUS.
And for our father’s sake and mother’s care,
Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.
TITUS.
Agree between you; I will spare my hand.
LUCIUS.
Then I’ll go fetch an axe.