Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Mar. Alas! the tender boy, in passion mov'd, 48
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? 52
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord,—a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart;
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the innocent, 56
Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone;
I see thou art not for my company.
Mar. Alas! my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. 'But!' How, if that fly had a father and mother? 60
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,
That, with his pretty buzzing melody, 64
Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill'd him.
Mar. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. O, O, O! 68
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor 72
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
Ah, sirrah!
Yet I think we are not brought so low, 76
62 lamenting doings: stories of lamentable deeds
71 insult on: exult over
76 Yet . . . low: we are not yet brought so low
