? Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the parle; These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready, which the careful Titus Hath ordain'd to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome: Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places. Marcus, we will. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; And welcome, all: although the cheer be poor, 'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus? Because I would be sure to have all well, To entertain your highness and your empress. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand, Because she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd? It was, Andronicus. Your reason, mighty lord? Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew his sorrows. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant, For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; And, with thy shame, thy father's sorrow die! What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind? Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me blind. I am as woful as Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this outrage: and it now is done. What, was she ravish'd? tell who did the deed. Will't please you eat? will't please your highness feed? Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius: They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue; And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong. Go fetch them hither to us presently. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie; Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. 'Tis true, 'tis true; witness my knife's sharp point. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed! Can the son's eye behold his father bleed? There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed! You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome, By uproar sever'd, like a flight of fowl Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf, These broken limbs again into one body; Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,