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So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot: Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down.
Alright, now sit down: and make sure you eat only as much As we need to keep enough strength to Avenger these painful wrongs of ours. Marcus, untie that knot of grief: My niece and I, poor souls, have no hands, And can’t fully express our deep sorrow With crossed arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to torment my chest; When my heart, wild with pain, Beats inside this sad body, Then I pound it down like this.
Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole; That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and soaking in Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
You map of misery, who can only speak through gestures! When your poor heart beats so violently, You can’t strike it down to quiet it. Hurt it with sighs, girl, kill it with groans; Or find a small knife between your teeth, And just press it against your heart; So all the tears your poor eyes shed Can run into that wound, and soaking in Drown the grieving fool in salty tears.
Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.
Shame on you, brother, shame! Don’t teach her to be so violent With her delicate life.
How now! has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands; To bid AEneas tell the tale twice o’er, How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this: Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyr’d signs; She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew’d with her sorrow, mesh’d upon her cheeks: Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers: Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet And by still practise learn to know thy meaning.
What’s this? Has sorrow made you mad already? Why, Marcus, no one should be mad except me. What violent things can she do to herself? Why are you even talking about hands? To make AEneas repeat the story again, Of how Troy burned and he was made miserable? Oh, don’t talk about hands, Or we’ll remember we have none. Shame, shame, how wildly I talk, As if we would forget we had no hands, If Marcus hadn’t mentioned them! Come, let’s eat; and, gentle girl, eat this: There’s no drink! Listen, Marcus, hear what she says; I can read all her silent signs; She says she drinks nothing but tears, Brewed with her sorrow, mingled on her cheeks: Silent sufferer, I will understand your thoughts; In your mute actions, I’ll be as perfect As begging monks in their holy prayers: You won’t sigh, or raise your stumps to heaven, Or wink, or nod, or kneel, or make a sign, But I will make an alphabet from these And learn to understand your meaning through practice.
Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments: Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Please, grandfather, stop these deep laments: Make my aunt laugh with some happy story.
Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.
Oh, the poor boy, moved by his feelings, Is crying to see his grandfather so sad.
Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
Quiet, tender sapling; you’re made of tears, And tears will quickly melt you away.
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
What are you striking at, Marcus, with your knife?
At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly.
The thing I’ve killed, my lord; a fly.
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 Becomes not Titus’ brother: get thee gone: I see thou art not for my company.
Shame on you, murderer! You kill my heart; My eyes are tired of seeing tyranny: Killing the innocent Doesn’t suit Titus’ brother: get away: I see you’re not someone I want around.
Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.
Oh, my lord, I’ve only killed a fly.
But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That, with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill’d him.
But what if that fly had a father and mother? How would it flap its thin golden wings, And buzz sadly about the air! Poor harmless fly, That, with its cute buzzing song, Came here to make us happy! And you’ve killed it.
Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favor’d fly, Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.
Excuse me, sir; it was a nasty, ugly fly, Like the empress’ Moor; that’s why I killed it.
O, O, O, 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 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, But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
Oh, oh, oh, Then forgive me for criticizing you, Because you’ve done a kind thing. Give me your knife, I’ll make fun of it; I’ll pretend, as if it were the Moor Coming here just to poison me.-- There’s one for you, and that’s for Tamora. Ah, fool! But I think we’re not so low, That we can’t still kill a fly That looks like a coal-black Moor.
Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances.
Poor man! Grief has affected him so badly, He mistakes illusions for reality.
Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me: I’ll to thy closet; and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.
Come, take it away. Lavinia, come with me: I’ll go to your room; and we’ll read together Sad stories that happened in the old days. Come, boy, come with me: you’re young and fresh, And you’ll read when my eyes start to fade.