An monologue — Titus Andronicus

So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot: Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe, With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine, Is left to tirranize vppon my breast. Who when my hart all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thumpe it downe. Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes, When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still? Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones: Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth, And iust against thy hart make thou a hole, That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall May run into that sinke, and soaking in, Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares