[Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall.]
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.
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 Metamorphosis.
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?