Peace, tender sapling. Thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
When will this fearful slumber have an end?
O brother, speak with possibility,
And do not break into these deep extremes.
Is not my sorrow deep,
O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer
That hath received some unrecuring wound.
Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.—
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you—
My gracious lord,
Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay.
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;
Andronicus, stain notHyperbaton thy tomb with blood.
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?