Page 2117 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

Long live Lord Titus, my belovèd brother,
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome. [170]

T IT US

Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.

MARCUS

And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,
You that survive, and you that sleep in fame.
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,
That in your country’s service drew your swords;
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp,
That hath aspired to Solon’s happiness,
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed.
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been [180]
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,
This palliament of white and spotless hue,
And name thee in election for the empire,
With these our late-deceasèd emperor’s sons:
Be candidatus then, and put it on,
And help to set a head on headless Rome.

T IT US

A better head her glorious body fits
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness:
What should I don this robe and trouble you?
Be chosen with proclamations to-day, [190]
To-morrow yield up rude, resign my life,
And set abroad new business for you all?
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,
And led my country’s strength successfully,
And buried one and twenty valiant sons,
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms,
In right and service of their noble country,
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a sceptre to control the world:
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. [200]

MARCUS