The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1062 page)

Enter the Empress' sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravish'd

DEMETRIUS.

So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,

Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.

So, now go and tell tales, if your tongue can speak,

tell them who cut your tongue out and raped you.

CHIRON.

Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,

An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.

Write down what's in your mind, show your meaning that way,

if your stumps will let you hold a pen.

DEMETRIUS.

See how with signs and tokens she can scrawl.

Let's see what scribbles she can manage.

CHIRON.

Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

Go home, call for rose water, wash your hands.

DEMETRIUS.

She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;

And so let's leave her to her silent walks.

She has no tongue to call with, nor hands to wash;

and so let's leave her to her silent stroll.

CHIRON.

An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself.

If I were in her place, I would hang myself.

DEMETRIUS.

If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.

Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON

If you had hands to help you tie the knot.

Wind horns. Enter MARCUS, from hunting

MARCUS. Who is 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 an eternal sleep!

Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands

Hath 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 half 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 deflowered 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 encount'red 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 an oven stopp'd,

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

Fair Philomel, why 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, cousin, hast thou met,

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 case thy misery!

Exeunt

Who's this? Is this my niece, running away so fast?

Cousin, let me have a word: where is your husband?

If I'm dreaming, I'd give all my wealth to wake up!

If I'm awake, may some planet strike me down,

so I can rest in eternal sleep!

Speak, gentle niece. What harsh rough hands

have chopped and hacked and stripped your body

of your arms–those sweet ornaments

which kings have wished to be hugged by,

thinking it would be the greatest happiness

to have only half your love? Why don't you speak to me?

Alas, a red river of warm blood,

like a bubbling fountain blown by the wind,

is rising and falling between your rosy lips,

coming and going with your sweet breath.

It's obvious some rapist has deflowered you,

and, in case you would expose him, cut out your tongue.

Ah, now you turn your face away in shame!

And despite all this loss of blood–

flowing like a fountain with three spouts–

your cheeks look as red as the face of the sun,

blushing to be covered with a cloud.

Shall I speak for you? Shall I say this is what happened?

Oh, if only I knew what was inside, and knew the animal who did this,

so I could attack him to ease my pain!

Hidden sorrow, like an oven with its doors closed,

Burns the heart to cinders inside.

Fair Philomel only lost her tongue,

and with laborious embroidery sewed out her message;

but, lovely niece, that method is denied you.

You have met a craftier rapist, cousin,

and he has cut off those pretty fingers

which could have sewed better than Philomel.

Oh, if the monster had seen those white hands

trembling like the leaves of an aspen on a lute

making the silken strings delighted to be touched,

he would not have touched them for his life!

Or if he had heard the heavenly music

which your sweet tongue has made,

he would have dropped his knife and fallen asleep

like Cerberus enchanted by Orpheus.

Come, let us go, and make your father blind,

for such sight will blind a father's eyes;

One hour of storms can flood the fragrant meadows,

what will whole months of tears do to your father's eyes!

Don't back away, we will mourn with you;

if only our mourning could ease your misery!

Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons

MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of

execution, and TITUS going before, pleading

TITUS.

Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay!

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent

In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;

For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,

For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd,

And for these bitter tears, which now you see

Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,

Be pitiful to my condemned sons,

Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.

For two and twenty sons I never wept,

Because they died in honour's lofty bed.

[ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges

 pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt]

For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write

My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.

Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;

My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.

O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain

That shall distil from these two ancient urns,

Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs.

In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;

In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow

And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,

So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.

Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn

O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men!

Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,

And let me say, that never wept before,

My tears are now prevailing orators.

Hear me, revered fathers; noble Tribunes, wait!

Out of pity for my age, the age of one whose youth was spent

fighting dangerous wars whilst you slept in safety;

for all the blood I shed in Rome's great cause,

for all the frosty nights I have stayed awake,

and for these bitter tears, which you can now see,

filling the wrinkles of age in my cheeks,

be merciful to my condemned sons,

whose souls are not as evil as is supposed.

I never wept for the twenty two sons I have lost,

because they died honourable deaths.

Tribunes, I'm writing the great sorrows of my heart

in the dust with the sad tears of my soul.

Let my tears satisfy the needs of the dry earth,

for my sons'sweet blood will shame it and make it blush.

Oh earth, I will give you more rain

from these two ancient vessels,

than you will ever get from April's showers.

In the droughts of summer I'll still water you;

in winter I'll melt the snow with warm tears

and give your surface eternal spring,

as long as you refuse to drink my sons' blood.

Oh reverend Tribunes!Oh you kind old men!

Release my sons, reverse the death sentence,

and let me, who has never cried before, know

that my tears are successful pleaders.

LUCIUS.

O noble father, you lament in vain;

The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,

And you recount your sorrows to a stone.