Original
Modern English
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.
Listen to me, respected fathers! noble tribunes, wait! For the sake of my old age, which spent its youth Fighting in dangerous wars while you slept safely; For all the blood I’ve shed in Rome’s great conflict; For all the cold nights I’ve stayed awake; And for these bitter tears, which you now see Filling the wrinkles in my old face; Have pity on my sons, who are condemned, Whose souls are not as corrupted as you think. For twenty-two sons I never cried, Because they died in honor’s cause.
For these, 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 showers: 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.
For these, these, tribunes, I write in the dust The deep sadness of my heart and my soul’s bitter tears: Let my tears stop the earth’s dry thirst; My sons’ sweet blood will make the earth ashamed and blush. Oh earth, I will help you more with rain, That will fall from these two old urns, Than youthful April will with all his showers: In summer’s drought, I’ll still drop on you; In winter, with warm tears, I’ll melt the snow And keep eternal spring on your face, If you refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood.
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.
Oh respected tribunes! Oh kind, old men! Free my sons, reverse their death sentence; And let me say, that I, who never cried before, Now find my tears to be powerful speakers.
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’re mourning for nothing: The tribunes don’t hear you; no one is around; And you’re telling your sorrows to a stone.
Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,--
Ah, Lucius, let me plead for your brothers. Grave tribunes, once again, I beg you,--
My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
My gracious lord, no tribune is listening to you.
Why, tis no matter, man; if they did hear, They would not mark me, or if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must; 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 tribune 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.
Well, it doesn’t matter, man; even if they did hear, They wouldn’t listen to me, and even if they did listen, They wouldn’t pity me, but I must plead anyway; So I’ll tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, although they can’t respond to my pain, In some ways, they are better than the tribunes, Because they won’t interrupt my story: When I cry, they humbly sit at my feet And seem to cry with me; And if they were only dressed in proper funeral clothes, Rome would have no tribune like these. A stone is as soft as wax,—tribunes are harder than stones; A stone is silent and doesn’t harm anyone, While tribunes use their tongues to condemn men to death.
But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn?
But why are you standing there with your weapon drawn?
To rescue my two brothers from their death: For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment.
To save my two brothers from death: For this, the judges have sentenced me To the eternal punishment of banishment.
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?
Oh lucky man! they’ve helped you. Why, foolish Lucius, don’t you see That Rome is nothing but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers need to hunt, and Rome has no prey But me and my family: how lucky you are, then, To be banished from these predators! But who is coming with our brother Marcus here?
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 to cry, old man; Or if you can’t, let your noble heart break: I bring you terrible sorrow in your old age.
Will it consume me? let me see it, then.
Will it destroy me? Let me see it, then.
This was thy daughter.
This is your daughter.
Why, Marcus, so she is.
Yes, Marcus, I can see that she is.
Ay me, this object kills me!
Oh no, this sight kills me!
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 faggot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou camest, 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 nursed this woe, in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served 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, are but vain.
Cowardly boy, get up and look at her. Speak, Lavinia, what cursed hand Has made you lose your hands in front of your father? What fool has added water to the sea, Or brought firewood to the already burning Troy? My grief was already overwhelming before you came, And now it’s like the Nile, it has no limits. Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too; Because they’ve fought for Rome, and it was all for nothing; And they’ve caused this pain, just by keeping me alive; They’ve been raised in vain prayers, And have been of no use to me: Now all I ask of them Is that one will help cut off the other. It’s good, Lavinia, that you have no hands; Because hands, for serving Rome, are useless.
Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee?
Speak, dear sister, who has done this to you?
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 beautiful instrument of her thoughts That spoke them so sweetly and eloquently, Is torn away from her, that pretty little cage, Where, like a lovely songbird, it sang Beautiful, varied notes that charmed everyone!
O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?
Oh, tell us for her, who did this horrible thing?
O, thus I found her, straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound.
Oh, this is how I found her, wandering in the park, Trying to hide, like a deer That has been wounded and can’t heal.
It was my deer; and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead: For now I stand as one upon a rock Environed 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 banished 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 gather’d lily almost wither’d.
It was my deer; and the one who wounded her Has hurt me more than if they had killed me: Because now I stand like a man on a rock Surrounded by a sea of wilderness, Watching the tide rise, wave by wave, Always waiting for the next wave To swallow me with its salty depths. This is the way my poor sons have gone to their death; Here stands my other son, a man in exile, And here is my brother, weeping for my suffering. But what really tears my soul apart, Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my own life. If I had only seen your picture like this, It would have driven me mad: what should I do Now that I see your body in such pain? You have no hands to wipe away your tears: Nor a tongue, to tell me who has done this to you: Your husband is dead: and because of his death Your brothers are condemned, and dead too. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look at her! When I named her brothers, fresh tears Appeared on her cheeks, like the honey-dew On a lily that’s almost wilting.
Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent.
Maybe she cries because they killed her husband; Or maybe because she knows they’re innocent.
If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips. Or make some sign how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stain’d, as meadows, yet not dry, With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues, Plot some deuce of further misery, To make us wonder’d at in time to come.
If they did kill your husband, then be happy Because the law has taken revenge on them. No, no, they wouldn’t do such an awful thing; Look at the sorrow their sister feels. Sweet Lavinia, let me kiss your lips. Or give me some sign of how I can ease your pain: Shall your good uncle, and your brother Lucius, And you, and I, sit by some fountain, Looking down to see our cheeks Stained, like meadows that aren’t dry, Covered with muck left by a flood? And in the fountain shall we stare so long Until the water turns salty with our bitter tears? Or should we cut off our hands, like yours? Or should we bite our tongues, and in silence Spend the rest of our hateful days? What should we do? Let us, who still have our tongues, Plan some new misery, To make people marvel at us in the future.
Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief, See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.
Sweet father, stop crying; for, as you mourn, Look how my poor sister sobs and weeps.
Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.
Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry your eyes.
Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.
Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, I know Your handkerchief can’t soak up any of my tears, Because, poor man, you’ve already soaked it with your own.
Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe your cheeks.
Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee: His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this, As far from help as Limbo is from bliss!
Look, Marcus, look! I understand her gestures: If she could speak, she would say to you What I just said to you: Her handkerchief, soaked with her real tears, Won’t help wipe her sorrowful cheeks. Oh, what a shared grief this is, As far from help as Limbo is from heaven!
Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word,--that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand, And send it to the king: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive; And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends you this message,--that, if you love your sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or yourself, old Titus, Or any one of you, cut off your hand, And send it to the king: for that, He will send you back both your sons alive; And that will be the ransom for their wrong.
O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark, That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? With all my heart, I’ll send the emperor My hand: Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?
Oh, gracious emperor! Oh, kind Aaron! Has any raven ever sung so sweetly like a lark, That brings good news of the sunrise? With all my heart, I’ll send the emperor my hand: Good Aaron, will you help me cut it off?
Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: My youth can better spare my blood than you; And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.
Wait, father! For that noble hand of yours, That has defeated so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will do the job: My youth can spare my blood more easily than yours; And so, mine will save my brothers’ lives.
Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle? O, none of both but are of high desert: My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
Which of your hands has not defended Rome, And held high the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy’s fortress? Oh, none of you but are highly deserving: My hand has only been idle; let it be used To ransom my two nephews from death; Then I will have kept it for a worthy cause.
Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come.
No, come on, decide whose hand shall go, For fear they die before their pardon comes.
My hand shall go.
My hand shall go.
By heaven, it shall not go!
By heaven, it shall not go!
Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
Gentlemen, stop fighting: such withered old hands Are meant to be plucked up, and so, mine.
Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
Sweet father, if I am to be thought your son, Let me save both my brothers from death.
And, for our father’s sake and mother’s care, Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.
And, for our father’s sake and mother’s love, Let me show you a brother’s love in return.
Agree between you; I will spare my hand.
Agree between yourselves; I will spare my hand.
Then I’ll go fetch an axe.
Then I’ll go get an axe.
But I will use the axe.
But I’ll use the axe.
Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both: Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
Come here, Aaron; I’ll trick them both: Lend me your hand, and I’ll give you mine.
[Aside] If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest, And never, whilst I live, deceive men so: But I’ll deceive you in another sort, And that you’ll say, ere half an hour pass.
[Aside] If that’s called trickery, I’ll be honest, And never, as long as I live, deceive anyone like that: But I’ll trick you in a different way, And you’ll admit it before half an hour is up.
Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch’d. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand: Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers; bid him bury it More hath it merited; that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
Now stop fighting: what’s done is done. Good Aaron, give the king my hand: Tell him it was the hand that saved him From thousands of dangers; tell him to bury it It deserves that much; let it have it. As for my sons, tell him I value them Like jewels bought at a cheap price; And yet they’re dear to me, because I paid for them myself.
I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.
I’m going, Andronicus: and for your hand, Expect to have your sons with you soon.
Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace. Aaron will have his soul black like his face.
Their heads, I mean. Oh, how this wickedness Fills me with joy just thinking about it! Let fools do good, and let righteous men ask for mercy. Aaron’s soul will be as black as his face.
O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth: If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call!
Oh, here I raise this one hand up to heaven, And bow this weak ruin to the earth: If any force out there feels sorry for these miserable tears, I call upon it!
What, wilt thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers; Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
What, will you kneel with me? Do so, then, dear heart; for heaven will hear our prayers; Or with our sighs we’ll darken the sky, And stain the sun with fog, just like clouds When they hold him in their soft, melting arms.
O brother, speak with possibilities, And do not break into these deep extremes.
Oh brother, speak realistically, And don’t go into these extreme emotions.
Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them.
Isn’t my grief deep, without end? Then let my feelings be as endless as my sorrow.
But yet let reason govern thy lament.
But still let reason control your mourning.
If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes: When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
If there was a reason for all this suffering, Then I could limit my pain: When heaven cries, doesn’t the earth flood? If the winds rage, doesn’t the sea become furious, Threatening the sky with its swollen face? And do you think there’s a reason for all this trouble? I am like the sea; listen to how her sighs blow! She is the weeping sky, I the earth: So my sea must be moved by her sighs; Then my earth must flood with her endless tears Until it’s drowned; Because my heart can’t hide her grief, But like a drunkard, I must throw it up. So let me be, for those who lose have the right To ease their pain with bitter words.
Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back; Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d; That woe is me to think upon thy woes More than remembrance of my father’s death.
Worthy Andronicus, you’re poorly repaid For that brave hand you sent to the emperor. Here are the heads of your two noble sons; And here’s your hand, sent back to mock you; Your griefs are their entertainment, your resolve ridiculed; It’s more painful to think about your suffering Than to remember my own father’s death.
Now let hot AEtna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal; But sorrow flouted at is double death.
Now let hot Mount Etna cool in Sicily, And let my heart be an eternal hell! These miseries are more than anyone can bear. To weep with those who weep is somewhat comforting; But mocking sorrow is twice as painful.
Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!
Ah, that this sight should hurt so deeply, And yet life, which I hate, doesn’t shrink from it! How can death still allow life to hold its name, When life has nothing left but to breathe?
Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake.
Alas, poor heart, that kiss is as comforting As cold water to a hungry snake.
When will this fearful slumber have an end?
When will this terrible sleep end?
Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here: Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs: Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes; Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?
Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; You are not asleep: see, your two sons’ heads, Your brave hand, your ruined daughter here: Your other banished son, pale and bloodless from this sight, And I, your brother, like a cold stone, numb and still. Ah, now I will no longer try to control your grief: Tear out your silver hair, gnaw at your other hand; And let this horrible sight Be the final closing of our miserable eyes; Now it’s time to rage; why are you still?
Ha, ha, ha!
Ha, ha, ha!
Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.
Why do you laugh? it’s not fitting for this moment.
Why, I have not another tear to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes And make them blind with tributary tears: Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return’d again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other I will bear. Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d: these arms! Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay: Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there: And, if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.
Why, I have no more tears to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And wants to take over my eyes And blind me with endless tears: So where can I find Revenge’s cave? Because these two heads seem to speak to me, And threaten that I will never find peace Until all these wrongs are repaid Even to the ones who caused them. Come, let me see what task I must do. You heavy-hearted people, gather around me, So I can turn to each of you, And swear to my soul that I will right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And I will carry the other in this hand. Lavinia, you will help: take my hand, sweet girl, Between your teeth. As for you, boy, get out of my sight; You are an exile and must leave: Go to the Goths and raise an army there: And, if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.
Farewell Andronicus, my noble father, The wofull’st man that ever lived in Rome: Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life: Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power, To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine.
Farewell Andronicus, my noble father, The saddest man to ever live in Rome: Farewell, proud Rome; until Lucius returns, He leaves behind pledges dearer than his life: Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; Oh, how I wish you were as you once were! But now neither Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in forgetfulness and painful sorrow. If Lucius lives, he will avenge your wrongs; And make proud Saturninus and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now I will go to the Goths and raise an army, To get revenge on Rome and Saturninus.