have stain'd with mud, This goodly summer with your winter mix'd. You kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest; Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forced. What would you say, if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad: Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust And with your blood and it I'll make a paste, And of the paste a coffin I will rear And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, And worse than Progne I will be revenged: And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, Receive the blood: and when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small And with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be every one officious To make this banquet; which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast. So, now bring them in, for I'll play the cook, And see them ready 'gainst their mother comes. Uncle Marcus, since it is my father's mind That I repair to Rome, I am content. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him Till he be brought unto the empress' face, For testimony of her foul proceedings: And see the ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the emperor means no good to us. Some devil whisper curses in mine ear, And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart! Away, inhuman dog! unhallow'd slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. What, hath the firmament more suns than one? What boots it thee to call thyself a sun