Chapter: SCENE II.
Rome. TITUS' house

A banquet.

Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS

  TITUS. So so, now sit; and look you eat no more
    Than will preserve just so much strength in us
    As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
    Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
    Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
    And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
    With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
    Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;
    And, when my heart, all mad with misery,
    Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
    Then thus I thump it down.
    [To LAVINIA]  Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
    When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
    Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
    Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
    Or get some little knife between thy teeth
    And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
    That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
    May run into that sink and, soaking in,
    Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
  MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay
    Such violent hands upon her tender life.
  TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already?
    Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
    What violent hands can she lay on her life?
    Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands?
    To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o'er
    How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?
    O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
    Lest we remember still that we have none.
    Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,
    As if we should forget we had no hands,
    If Marcus did not name the word of hands!
    Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:
    Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says-
    I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
    She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
    Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
    Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
    In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
    As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
    Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
    Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
    But I of these will wrest an alphabet,
    And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.
  BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments;
    Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
  MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
    Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
  TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
    And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
                          [MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife]
    What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
  MARCUS. At that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly.
  TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou kill'st my heart!
    Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny;
    A deed of death done on the innocent
    Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone;
    I see thou art not for my company.
  MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
  TITUS. 'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother?
    How would he hang his slender gilded wings
    And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
    Poor harmless fly,
    That with his pretty buzzing melody
    Came here to make us merry! And thou hast kill'd him.
  MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
    Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
  TITUS. O, O, O!
    Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
    For thou hast done a charitable deed.
    Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,
    Flattering myself as if it were the Moor
    Come hither purposely to poison me.
    There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
    Ah, sirrah!
    Yet, I think, we are not brought so low
    But that between us we can kill a fly
    That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
  MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
    He takes false shadows for true substances.
  TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me;
    I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
    Sad stories chanced in the times of old.
    Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young,
    And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.        Exeunt

 Titus is overwrought with grief and cannot stop lamenting over his grief. Marcus and young Lucius  fear he is upsetting Lavinia and try to persuade him to talk of cheerful things, but in vain. As they are eating, Marcus kills a fly and Titus accuses him of cruelty. Marcus explains that it was black fly. Titus reminded of Aaron by the mention of "black" congratulates him and takes a knife and attacks it thinking it is Aaron and Tamora. Titus, Lavinia and young Lucius retire to read old stories.

