Titus Andronicus Quotes

Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head

If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

Is it good? It ain't Shakespeare, but then, Shakespeare wrote Titus Andronicus, so you tell me.

Come and take choice of all my library and so beguile thy sorrow.

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

Coal-black is better than another hue, In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.

O, why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have done: Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will; If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust. (Act V, Scene 2, 2503)

But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,

Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.

Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS ANDRONICUS: Ha, ha, ha! MARCUS ANDRONICUS: Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. TITUS ANDRONICUS: Why, I have not another tear to shed:

I'll find a day to massacre them all And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son's life, And make them know what 'tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.

A Titus Andronicus catalog of threats beat at the door. They haunt my nightmares still.

Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds? AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse- Wherein I did not some notorious ill; As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' door Even when their sorrows almost was forgot, And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters 'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.' Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS ANDRONICUS O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou, then, From these devourers to be banished!

Why makes thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia , therefore must be loved.

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day—and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse,— Wherein I did not some notorious ill, As kill a man, or else devise his death, Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it, Accuse some innocent and forswear myself, Set deadly enmity between two friends, Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' doors, Even when their sorrows almost were forgot; And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, 'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.' Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly, And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

At the end of class, he stops me on my way out the door and hands me my essay on Lavinia from Titus Andronicus. I focused on her torn-out tongue and torn-off hands, her subsequent silence, the failure of language in the face of rape.

Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive / That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?

And there is always the argument-closing ‘Villain, I have done thy mother’, a retort from Titus Andronicus of such eviscerating wit that we still honour it today with jokes beginning with ‘your mum’.

What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let me go. Lav: ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. O! keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body: Do this, and be a charitable murderer. Tam: So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee: No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. Dem: Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long. Lav: No grace! no womanhood! Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name. Confusion fall—

Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.

Come, come, be every one officious To make this banquet; which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.

For now I stand as one upon a rock Environed with a wilderness of sea.

O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life

keep eternal springtime on thy face

إن الدهاء والحيلة ، هما اللذان يحققان ما تريدان ، ولا بد أن تقتنعا بأن المرء إذا لم يستطع أن ينال بغيته كما يشتهي فعليه أن ينال بالقوة ما يستطيع.

Sorrow concealèd, like an oven stopped, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned grudges; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep: In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!

Give me a staff of honor for mine age, / But not a scepter to control the world.

My mistress is my mistress, this myself.

fresh tears Stood upon her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gathered lily almost withered

Some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. [IV.ii.111]

لم تضحك وليس هذا أوان ضحك؟ : لم! لأنه لم تعد في عيني دمعة واحدة فأسكبها. إن هذا الحزن عدو مغتصب غاشم، أخشى أن ينقض على عيوني الدامعة فيفرض عليها ضريبة من الدمع تعميها. أين الطريق لأستخفى منه في كهف الانتقام؟

ألا فلتخمد الآن نار بركان إتنا المشتعلة في صقلية، وليصبح قلبي هو الجحيم الملتهب الذي لا ينطفيء أبدا، إن احتمال هذه الكوارث لفوق طاقة البشر. فلقد يخفف عن الباكين مشاركة القوم لهم في البكاء، أما السخرية من أرزائهم فهي الموت المضاعف.

إن كانت فينوس بحبها تتحكم في رغباتكم فإن ساترن بنحسه يسيطر على رغبتي. إلا ففيما النظرة الثابتة المحملقة في عيني؟و ولم هذا الصمت وهذا الحزن المكفهر؟ لماذا تسترسل الآن غدائر شعري المجعد وكأنه حية رقطاء تتمدد لكي تأتي عملا مميتا؟ إن هذه ليست أمارات الشهوة يا سيتي، إنما هي أمارات الانتقام في قلبي ، والموت في يدي ، والدم والثأر يدقان كالمطارق في رأسي.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand

when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh

За час грозы затопятся луга, — За годы слез что станется с глазами? Останься, будем вместе слезы лить, Когда бы стон мог горе облегчить!

Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me.

أما أنت ، يا صورة الأسى التي لا تتكلم إلا رمزا ، إنك إذا اضطرب قلبك المسكين بوجيبه المجنون الثائر فإنك لن تستطيعي أن تضربيه هكذا ليسكت. الفحيه يا فتاتي بنار آهاتك ، واقتليه بحر أنينك ، أو هاتي سكينا صغيرا وضعيه بين أسنانك ، وتعالي إلى أقرب ما تكونين من قلبك ، وافتحي فيه ثغرة ، حتى تجري الدموع المسفوكة من عينيك المسكينتين لتنصب في هذا الوعاء حتى يترع ، فتغرق نفسك الحزينة فيه في بحر ملح من الدموع.

We will commit them to memory. We will become them. We become authors. We become their books. I am sorry. I lost something there. Like a path I was walking that dead-ended, and now I am alone and lost in the forest, and I am here and I do not know where here is anymore. You must learn a Shakespeare play: I will think of you as Titus Andronicus. Or you, whoever you are, you could learn an Agatha Christie novel: you will be Murder on the Orient Express.

I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [Aside] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace. 1340 Aaron will have his soul black like his face.

Marina Orlova was hooked on my quote about women not owing men. I scrolled through her posted paintings and recalled a Slovak friend once commenting on a guy wanna-be a great painter, something like this: "Aaano, on bol profesionalnym maljiarom na Slovensku, maloval tam pice a hakove krize po stenach". He meant graffiti, but I hesitate to translate it in detail for it may sound too rough. Another thought is about surreal, sometimes spurious aesthetics mixed with hinted or daring sexuality, which Marina Orlova endorses, deliberately or not, in line of her claimed profession. The posts call to mind The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover or even Titus Andronicus. No wonder, thousands of bozos are attracted to her internet activity because ..., well, the woman is hot.

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; (5.2.18)

Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the Emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons, And here’s thy hand in scorn to thee sent back. Thy grief their sports! thy resolution mock'd, That woe is me to think upon thy woes More than remembrance of my father’s death. [Exit.] Marc. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe. [Lavinia kisses Titus.] Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starvèd snake. Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end? Marc. Now farewell, flatt’ry; die, Andronicus. Thou dost not slumber. See thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here, Thy other banished son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand, Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm. Why art thou still? Tit. Ha, ha, ha! Marc. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed. Besides, this sorrow is an enemy And would usurp upon my wat’ry eyes And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be returned again Even in their throats that hath committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about That I may turn me to each one of you And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these arms. Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight. Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths and raise an army there. And if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do. Exeunt.

Titus Andronicus:

Is the sun dimmed that gnats do fly in it?

Let not thy sorrow die, though i am dead.

you recount your sorrows to a stone.

is the the sun dimm'd that gnats do fly in it?

CAROL: I am tired of seeing dead women in stories.

At more or less the same time as Camden’s Britannia, a dramatist called George Peele, now best known as the possible author of parts of Titus Andronicus, was penning his play Edward the First.

Titus Andronicus, a play that took the art of sex-crazed violence further than anyone ever dared, even Kit, and in doing so captivated the city. Titus became the most profitable play in the history of London and remained so throughout Shakespeare’s life. What’s better than a public execution? Hey, Titus promises you four executions, seven murders, buckets of gore, degradations galore, blatant racism, rampant dismemberments, incestuous cannibalism, and a rape scene unrivaled in theatric brutality in which a young woman’s husband is stabbed to death before her eyes after which she is repeatedly raped on top of his corpse after which her hands and tongue are lopped off with knives.

Only a man devoid of the sense of measure and of taste could produce such types as "Titus Andronicus" or "Troilus and Cressida,

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand. Blood and revenge are hammering in my head, so sayeth Titus Andronicus,” she said, shaking her fist at him. “Next time, you die.

Kill me dead” is a tautology that worries some critics, but Dylan, before writing his own version, sang it early (and later) in his career as part of ‘Cocaine Blues’. It appears straight, as those three words, in Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus and in variants elsewhere, most notably, given Dylan’s frequent recourse to that seminal play, in Hamlet.1 We will be looking at the language of Dylan’s Tempest in detail in the final chapter, but it is fitting here to quote one of Anne Margaret Daniel’s notes on ‘Early Roman Kings’: “That ‘Gonna shake ’em all down’ sounds contemporary, or at least twentieth century; automatically, we associate shakedown with the Grateful Dead, yet, it too is Shakespeare’s. Merriam-Webster lists its first use in 1859, but Shakespeare riffed on it in Coriolanus.

Villain, I have done thy mother.