to Mercury; This to Apollo; this to the god of war; Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What's this but libelling against the senate, And blazoning our injustice every where? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As who would say, in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies Shall be no shelter to these outrages: But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus' health, whom, if she sleep, He'll so awake as she in fury shall Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age, The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr'd his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all: But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick, Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise, Then is all safe, the anchor's in the port. How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us? Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. 'Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good den: I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. Go, take him away, and hang him presently. How much money must I have? Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. Hanged! by'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villany? I know from whence this same device proceeds: May this be borne?--as if his traitorous sons, That died by law for murder of our brother, Have by my means been butcher'd wrongfully! Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege: For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman; Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. What news with thee, AEmilius? Arm, arm, my lord;--Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gather'd head; and with a power high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with