The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)
Page 647
and so let's leave her to her silent stroll.
CHIRON.
An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself.
If I were in her place, I would hang myself.
DEMETRIUS.
If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.
Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON
If you had hands to help you tie the knot.
Wind horns. Enter MARCUS, from hunting
MARCUS. Who is this?- my niece, that flies away so fast?
Cousin, a word: where is your husband?
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!
If I do wake, some planet strike me down,
That I may slumber an eternal sleep!
Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands
Hath lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare
Of her two branches- those sweet ornaments
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,
And might not gain so great a happiness
As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee,
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!
And notwithstanding all this loss of blood-
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts-
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face
Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so?
O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind;
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee.
A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off
That could have better sew'd than Philomel.
O, had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,
He would not then have touch'd them for his life!
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind,
For such a sight will blind a father's eye;
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads,
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee;
O, could our mourning case thy misery!
Exeunt
Who's this? Is this my niece, running away so fast?
Cousin, let me have a word: where is your husband?
If I'm dreaming, I'd give all my wealth to wake up!
If I'm awake, may some planet strike me down,
so I can rest in eternal sleep!
Speak, gentle niece. What harsh rough hands
have chopped and hacked and stripped your body
of your arms–those sweet ornaments
which kings have wished to be hugged by,
thinking it would be the greatest happiness
to have only half your love? Why don't you speak to me?
Alas, a red river of warm blood,
like a bubbling fountain blown by the wind,
is rising and falling between your rosy lips,
coming and going with your sweet breath.
It's obvious some rapist has deflowered you,
and, in case you would expose him, cut out your tongue.
Ah, now you turn your face away in shame!
And despite all this loss of blood–
flowing like a fountain with three spouts–
your cheeks look as red as the face of the sun,
blushing to be covered with a cloud.
Shall I speak for you? Shall I say this is what happened?
Oh, if only I knew what was inside, and knew the animal who did this,
so I could attack him to ease my pain!
Hidden sorrow, like an oven with its doors closed,
Burns the heart to cinders inside.
Fair Philomel only lost her tongue,
and with laborious embroidery sewed out her message;
but, lovely niece, that method is denied you.
You have met a craftier rapist, cousin,
and he has cut off those pretty fingers
which could have sewed better than Philomel.
Oh, if the monster had seen those white hands
trembling like the leaves of an aspen on a lute
making the silken strings delighted to be touched,
he would not have touched them for his life!
Or if he had heard the heavenly music
which your sweet tongue has made,
he would have dropped his knife and fallen asleep
like Cerberus enchanted by Orpheus.
Come, let us go, and make your father blind,
for such sight will blind a father's eyes;
One hour of storms can flood the fragrant meadows,
what will whole months of tears do to your father's eyes!
Don't back away, we will mourn with you;
if only our mourning could ease your misery!
Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons
MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of
execution, and TITUS going before, pleading
TITUS.
Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay!
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd,
And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
[ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges
pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt]
For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;
My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.
O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain
That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs.
In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;
In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.
Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn
O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.
Hear me, revered fathers; noble Tribunes, wait!
Out of pity for my age, the age of one whose youth was spent
fighting dangerous wars whilst you slept in safety;
for all the blood I shed in Rome's great cause,
for all the frosty nights I have stayed awake,
and for these bitter tears, which you can now see,
filling
the wrinkles of age in my cheeks,
be merciful to my condemned sons,
whose souls are not as evil as is supposed.
I never wept for the twenty two sons I have lost,
because they died honourable deaths.
Tribunes, I'm writing the great sorrows of my heart
in the dust with the sad tears of my soul.
Let my tears satisfy the needs of the dry earth,
for my sons'sweet blood will shame it and make it blush.
Oh earth, I will give you more rain
from these two ancient vessels,
than you will ever get from April's showers.
In the droughts of summer I'll still water you;
in winter I'll melt the snow with warm tears
and give your surface eternal spring,
as long as you refuse to drink my sons' blood.
Oh reverend Tribunes!Oh you kind old men!
Release my sons, reverse the death sentence,
and let me, who has never cried before, know
that my tears are successful pleaders.
LUCIUS.
O noble father, you lament in vain;
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
Oh noble father, you plead in vain;
the Tribunes can't hear you, there's no-one here,
and you are telling your sorrows to stone.
TITUS.
Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead!
Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you.
Ah, Lucius, let me beg for your brothers!
Great Tribunes, I beg you once again.
LUCIUS.
My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
My gracious lord, no tribune is listening.
TITUS.
Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear,
They would not mark me; if they did mark,
They would not pity me; yet plead I must,
And bootless unto them.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;
Who though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale.
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribunes like to these.
A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones.
A stone is silent and offendeth not,
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
[Rises]
But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?
It doesn't matter, man; if they heard me
they wouldn't pay attention; if they paid attention
they wouldn't pity me; but I must beg
even when it's useless.
So I will tell my sorrows to the stones;
though they can't respond to my distress
in some ways they are better than the Tribunes,
because they won't interrupt me.
When I weep they humbly, around my feet,
receive my tears, and seem to be weeping with me;
if they were just dressed in solemn robes
Rome could have no better tribunes than these.
Stones are soft as wax, compared to tribunes who are hard as stones.
Stones are silent and do no harm,
while tribunes use their tongues to condemn men to death.
But why are you standing with your sword out?
LUCIUS.
To rescue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.
To rescue my two brothers from their death;
the judges have announced that
I will be permanently exiled for this.
TITUS.
O happy man! they have befriended thee.
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then
From these devourers to be banished!
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA
You happy man!They've done you a favour.
Why, foolish Lucius, can't you see
that Rome is just a desert full of tigers?
Tigers must hunt, and Rome has no prey
except for me and my family; how lucky you are
to be sent away from these beasts!
But who is this who comes here with our brother Marcus?
MARCUS.
Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep,
Or if not so, thy noble heart to break.
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.
Titus, get ready for your old eyes to weep,
or if not for your noble heart to break.
I'm bringing overwhelming sorrow to your old age.
TITUS.
Will it consume me? Let me see it then.
Will it overwhelm me?Then give it to me.
MARCUS.
This was thy daughter.
This was your daughter.
TITUS.
Why, Marcus, so she is.
Why, Marcus, she still is.
LUCIUS.
Ay me! this object kills me.
Alas!this is killing me.
TITUS.
Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea,
Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,
And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds.
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;
And they have nurs'd this woe in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have serv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;
For hands to do Rome service is but vain.
Fainthearted boy, get up and look at her.
Speak, Lavinia, what cursed hand
has made your father see you have no hands?
What fool has added a drop of water to the sea,
or tossed a twig on the fire of Troy?
My grief was at its height before you came,
and now, like the Nile, it floods everywhere.
Give me a sword, I'll chop my hands off too,
because they have fought for Rome without reward;
they have helped this sorrow by keeping me alive;
they have been held up in unanswered prayers,
and everything they have done has been useless.
Now all I ask them to do
is for one to help cut off the other.
It's good, Lavinia, that you have no hands,
for it's useless to have hands if they serve Rome.
LUCIUS.
Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?
Speak, gentle sister, who has tortured you?
MARCUS.
O, that delightful engine of her thoughts
That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!
Oh, that delightful tool she used to express her thoughts,
that chattered them with such delightful eloquence,
has been torn out of that pretty holl
ow cage
where it sang like a sweet tuneful bird
with lovely varied notes, enchanting everyone who heard!
LUCIUS.
O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?
You speak for her, who did this?
MARCUS.
O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.
I found her wandering like this in the park,
trying to hide herself like a deer
that has been given an incurable wound.
TITUS.
It was my dear, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead;
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone;
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man,
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me; what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her!
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew
Upon a gath'red lily almost withered.
She was my darling, and whoever harmed her
has hurt me more than if he had killed me;
Now I'm like a man standing on a rock,
surrounded by a wild sea,
watching the tide coming in wave after wave,
always expecting that some great surge
will swallow him up into its salty depths.
My wretched sons have gone that way to death;
here is my other son, an exile,