And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks:
Be pitiful to my condemned sons, 8
Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.
For two-and-twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
For these, tribunes, in the dust I write 12
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, 16
That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his showers:
In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;
In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow, 20
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: 24
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.
Luc. O noble father, you lament in vain:
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by; 28
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead!
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,—
10 two-and-twenty sons; cf. n.
