MARCUS.
Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy,
But . . . .
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
TITUS.
Publius, how now? How now, my masters?
What, have you met with her?
PUBLIUS.
No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for Justice, she is so employed,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
TITUS.
He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I’ll dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear;
And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven and move the gods
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows.]
“Ad Jovem,” that’s for you; here, “Ad Apollinem”;
“Ad Martem,” that’s for myself;
Here, boy, “to Pallas”; here, “to Mercury”;
“To Saturn,” Caius, not to Saturnine;
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy.—Marcus, loose when I bid.—
Of my word, I have written to effect;
There’s not a god left unsolicited.
MARCUS.
Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court.
We will afflict the emperor in his pride.
TITUS.
Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.] O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo’s lap! Give it Pallas.
MARCUS.
My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon.
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
TITUS.
Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.