Page 2164 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1

Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands,
To bid Æneas 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. [30]
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 martyred signs:
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brewed with her sorrows, meshed upon her cheeks.
Speechless complaint, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect [40]
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 practice learn to know thy meaning.

BOY

Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments,
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

MARCUS

Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,
Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

T IT US

Peace, tender sapling: thou art made of tears, [50]
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.

What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

MARCUS

At that that I have killed, my lord, - a fly.

T IT US