University of Virginia Library

SCE. I.

Valerius, Horatius, Herminius, Mutius.
Hor.
His Sons condemn'd?

Val.
Doom'd to the Rods and Axes.

Hor.
What both of 'em?

Val.
Both, Sir, both, both his Sons.

Hor.
What, Titus too?

Val.
Yes, Sir, his Darling Titus.
Nay, tho he knows him innocent as I am,
'Tis all one, Sir, his Sentence stands like Fate.

Hor.
Yet I'll intreat him,

Mut.
So will I.

Her.
And I.

Val.
Intreat him! yes, you may, my Lords, and move him,
As I have done: why, he's no more a man;
He is not cast in the same Common mould,
His Spirit moves not with our Springs and wards.
He looks and talks, as if that Jove had sent him
To be the Judge of all the under World;
Tells me, this Palace of the Universe,
With that vast Moat, the Ocean, running round us,
Th' eternal Stars so fiercely rowling o're us,
With all that Circulation of Heav'ns Orbs,
Were so establish'd from before all Ages
To be the Dowry of Majestick Rome:
Then looks, as if he had a Patent for it
To take account of all this great expence,
And see the layings out of the round World.

Her.
What shall be done then? for it grieves my Soul
To think of Titus loss.

Val.
There is no help;
But thus to shake your head, and cross your arms,
And wonder what the Gods and he intend.

Her.
There's scarce one man of this Conspiracy
But is some way Related if not nearly,
To Junius Brutus: some of the Aquilians
Are Nephews to him; and Vitellius Sister,
The grave Sempronia, is the Consul's Wife.

Val.
Therefore I have ingag'd that groaning Matron
To plead the Cause of her unhappy Sons.
Enter Titus, with Lictors.
But see, O Gods, behold the Gallant Titus,
The Mirror of all Sons, the white of Virtue;
Fill'd up with blots, and writ all o're with blood,
Bowing with shame his body to the ground;
Whipt out of breath by these Inhuman Slaves!
O, Titus! is this possible? this shame?

Tit.
O, my Valerius, call it not my shame;
By all the Gods, it is to Titus honor,
My constant suff'rings are my only glory:
What have I left besides? but ask Valerius,
Ask these good men that have perform'd their duty,
If all the while they whipt me like a Slave,
If when the blood from every part ran down
I gave one groan, or shed a Womans tear:
I think, I swear, I think, O my Valerius,
That I have born it well, and like a Roman.
But, O, far better shall I bear my death,
Which, as it brings less pain, has less dishonor.

Enter Teraminta wounded.
Ter.
Where is he? where, where is this God-like Son
Of an inhuman barbarous bloody Father?
O bear me to him.

Tit.
Ha! my Teraminta!
Is't possible? the very top of Beauty,
This perfect face drawn by the Gods at Council,
Which they were long a making, as they had reason,
For they shall never hit the like again,
Defil'd and mangled thus! What barbarous wretch
Has thus blasphem'd this bright Original?

Ter.
For me it matters not, nor my abuses;
But, Oh, for thee, why have they us'd thee thus?
Whipt, Titus, whipt! and could the Gods look on?
The glory of the World thus basely us'd?
Lash'd, whipt, and beaten by these upright Dogs?
Whose Souls, with all the Virtue of the Senate
Will be but Foyls, to any fault of thine,
Who hast a beauty ev'n in thy offending.
And did thy Father Doom thee thus? Oh Titus,
Forgive thy dying part, if she believes
A wretch so barbarous never could produce thee:
Some God, some God, my Titus, watch'd his absence,
Slipt to thy mothers bed and gave thee to the World.

Tit.
O this last wound, this stab to all my courage!
Had'st thou been well, I could have born my lashes:
And is it thus my Father does protect thee?

Ter.
Ah Titus! what, thy murd'rer my Protector!
No, let me fall again among the People,
Let me be whooted like a common strumpet,
Toss'd, as I was, and drag'd about the streets,
The Bastard of a Tarquin, foil'd in Dirt,
The cry of all those Bloodhounds that did hunt me
Thus to the Goal of death, this happy end
Of all my miseries, here to pant my last,
To wash thy gashes with my Farewel tears,
To murmur, sob, and lean my aking head
Upon thy breast, thus like a Cradle Babe
To suck thy wounds and bubble out my Soul,

Enter Sempronia, Aquilia, Vitellia, Mourners &c.
Semp.
Come Ladies, hast, and let us to the Senate;
If the Gods give us leave, we'll be to day
Part of the Council. Oh, my Son, my Titus!
See here the bloody Justice of a Father,
See how the Vengeance rains from his own bowels!
Is he not mad? If he refuse to hear us,
We'll bind his hands, as one bereft of reason.
Hast then: Oh Titus, I would stay to moan thee,
But that I fear his orders are gon out
For something worse, for death, to take the heads
Of all the Kindred of these wretched Women.

Ter.
Come then: I think I have some Spirits left,
To joyn thee, o most pious, best of Mothers,
To melt this Rocky heart: give me your hand;
Thus let us march before this wretched Host,
And offer to that God of blood our vows:
If there be ought that's human left about him,
Perhaps my wounds and horrible abuses,
Helpt with the tears and groans of this sad Troop
May batter down the best of his resolves.

Tit.
Hark, Teraminta.

Ter,
No, my Lord, away.

[Exeunt:
Tit.
Oh, my Valerius! was there ever day
Through all the Legends of recorded time
So sad as this? But see, my Father comes!
Enter Brutus, Tiberius, Lictors.
Tiberius too has undergone the Lash.
Give him the patience, Gods, of Martyr'd Titus,
And he will bless those hands that have chastis'd him.

Tib.
Enjoy the bloody Conquest of thy Pride,
Thou more Tyrannical than any Tarquin,
Thou fiercer Sire of these unhappy Sons,
Than impious Saturn or the gorg'd Thiestes:
This Cormorant sees, and owns us for his Children,
Yet preyes upon his entrails, tears his bowels
With thirst of blood, and hungar fetch'd from Hell,
Which Famish'd Tantalus would start to think on;
But end, Barbarian, end the horrid vengeance
Which thou so impiously hast begun,
Perfect thy Justice, as thou, Tyrant, call'st it,
Sit like a Fury on thy black Tribunal,
Grasp with thy monstrous hands these gory heads,
And let thy Flatt'ring Orators adore thee,
For Triumphs which shall make the smile at horror.

Bru.
Lead to the Senate.

Tib.
Go then to the Senate,
There make thy boast how thou hast doom'd thy Children
To Forks and Whips; for which, the Gods reward thee:
Away: my Spirit scorns more conference with thee.
The Ax will be as laughter; but the whips
That drew these stains, for this I beg the Gods
With my last breath, for every drop that falls
From these vile wounds, to Thunder curses on thee.

Exit.
Bru.
Valerius, hast; the Senate does attend us.

Exit.
Tit.
Valerius, ere you go, let me conjure thee
By all the Earth holds great or honorable,
As thou art truly Roman, stampt a man,
Grant to thy dying Titus one request.

Val.
I'll grant thee any thing, but do not talk
Of dying yet; for much I dare confide
In that sad company that's gone before:
I know they'l move him to preserve his Titus;
For, tho you mark'd him not, as hence he parted
I could perceive with joy a silent shower
Run down his silver beard: therefore have hope.

Tit.
Hope, say'st thou! O the Gods! what hope of life?
To live, to live! and after this dishonor!
No my Valerius, do not make me rave;
But if thou hast a Soul that's sensible
Let me conjure thee, when we reach the Senate,
To thrust me through the heart.

Val.
Not for the World.

Tit.
Do't; or I swear thou hast no Friendship for me
First, thou wilt save me from the hated Ax,
The Hangman's hand; for by the Gods I tell thee
Thou may'st as well stop the eternal Sun,
And drive him back, as turn my Father's purpose:
Next, and what most my Soul intreats thee for,
I shall perhaps in death procure his pity;
For to dye thus, beneath his killing frown,
Is damning me before my execution.

Valer.
'Tis granted: by the Gods, I swear to end thee
For when I weigh with my more serious thought
Thy Father's conduct in this dreadful Justice
I find it is impossible to save thee.
Come then, I'll lead thee, O thou glorious Victim,
Thus to the Altar of untimely death,
Thus in thy trim, with all thy bloom of youth,
This Virtues on thee, whose eternal Spring
Shall blossom on thy Monumental Marble
With never fading glory.

Tit.
Let me clasp thee,
Boyl out my thanks thus with my Farewel Spirits:
And now away, the Taper's almost out,
Never, Valerius, to be kindled more!
Or, if it be my friend, it shall continue,
Burn through all winds against the puff of Fortune,
To dazle still, and Shine like the fix'd Stars,
With beams of glory that shall last for ever.

Exeunt.