Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay

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,
Whose souls is not corrupted as 'tis thought.

And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.

For two-and-twenty sons I never wept
Because they died in honor's lofty bed.
  Andronicus lieth down, and the Judges pass by him.
  They exit with the prisoners as Titus continues speaking.
For these, tribunes, in the dust I write
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
That shall distil from these two ancient ruins
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
And keep eternal springtime on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.
  Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn.
O reverend tribunes, O gentle agèd men,
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.