Titus Andronicus

 Saturninus and his followers at one door, and
 Bassianus and his followers at another door, with
 other Romans, Drums, and Trumpets.
Saturninus
Noble patricians, patrons of my right,
Defend the justice of my cause with arms.
And countrymen, my loving followers,
Plead my successive title with your swords.
I am his firstborn son that was the last
That wore the imperial diadem of Rome.
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Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay.
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;
For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watched,
And for these bitter tears which now you see,
Filling the agèd wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemnèd sons,
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Titus Andronicus
Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.—
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you—
Lucius
My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
Titus Andronicus
Why, ’tis no matter, man. If they did hear,
They would not mark me; if they did mark,
They would not pity me.
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Marcus Andronicus 
O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer
That hath received some unrecuring wound.
Titus Andronicus 
It was my dear, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead.
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
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Marcus Andronicus
O brother, speak with possibility,
And do not break into these deep extremes.
Titus Andronicus
Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my passions bottomless with them.
Marcus Andronicus
But yet let reason govern thy lament.
Titus Andronicus
If there were reason for these miseries,
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Titus Andronicus 
When will this fearful slumber have an end?
Marcus Andronicus
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.
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Titus Andronicus 
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 Andronicus
At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.
Titus Andronicus 
Out on thee,
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Come, come, Lavinia. Look, thy foes are bound.—
Sirs, stop their mouths. Let them not speak to me,
But let them hear what fearful wordsTransferred Epithet I utter.—
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stained with mud,
This goodly summer with your winter mixed.Metaphors

Here stands the spring whom you have stained with mud,
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