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.
MARCUS.
This was the sport, my lord; when Publius shot,
The Bull, being galled, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court;
And who should find them but the empress’ villain?
She laughed, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
TITUS.
Why, there it goes. God give his lordship joy!
Enter the Clown with a basket and two pigeons in it.