Another Part of the Forest. |
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Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. |
Dem. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, |
Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee. |
Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so; |
An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. |
Dem. See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. |
Chi. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. |
Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; |
And so let's leave her to her silent walks. |
Chi. An 'twere my case, I should go hang myself. |
Dem. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON. |
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Enter MARCUS. |
Mar. Who's this? my niece, that flies away so fast? |
Cousin, a word; where is your husband? |
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! |
If I do wake, some planet strike me down, |
That I may slumber in eternal sleep! |
Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands |
Have lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare |
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, |
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, |
And might not gain so great a happiness |
As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me? |
Alas! a crimson river of warm blood, |
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, |
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, |
Coming and going with thy honey breath |
But, sure, some Tereus hath deflower'd thee, |
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. |
Ah! now thou turn'st away thy face for shame; |
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, |
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, |
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face |
Blushing to be encounter'd with a cloud. |
Shall I speak for thee? shall I say 'tis so? |
O! that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, |
That I might rail at him to ease my mind. |
Sorrow concealed, like to an oven stopp'd, |
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. |
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, |
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind: |
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; |
A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal, |
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, |
That could have better sew'd than Philomel. |
O! had the monster seen those lily hands |
Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, |
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, |
He would not, then, have touch'd them for his life; |
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony |
Which that sweet tongue hath made, |
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep, |
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. |
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind; |
For such a sight will blind a father's eye: |
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads; |
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes? |
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee: |
O! could our mourning ease thy misery. [Exeunt. |
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