Page 2161 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Exit.
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 mocked;
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father’s death. [240]

MARCUS

Now let hot Ætna 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.

LUCIUS

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!

MARCUS

Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless [250]
As frozen water to a starvèd snake.

T IT US

When will this fearful slumber have an end?

MARCUS

Now, farewell, flattery, die Andronicus:
Thou dost not slumber, see thy two sons’ heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banished 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.
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand [260]
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?