Peace, tender sapling. Thou art made of tears
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?
At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.
Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill'st my heart.
Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny;
A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone.
I see thou art not for my company.
Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly.
“But”? How if that fly had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,
That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry! And thou hast killed him.
Pardon me, sir. It was a black, ill-favored fly,
Like to the Empress' Moor. Therefore I killed him.
O, O, O!
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife. I will insult on him,
Flattering myself as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
Yet I think we are not brought so low
But that between us we can kill a fly
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him
He takes false shadows for true substances.