An monologue — Titus Andronicus

How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already? Why Marcus, no man should be mad but I: What violent hands can she lay on her life: Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands, To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice ore How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O handle not the theame, to talke of hands, Least we remember still that we haue none, Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke As if we should forget we had no hands: If Marcus did not name the word of hands. Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this, Heere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies, I can interpret all her martir'd signes, She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes, Speechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought: In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect As begging Hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen, Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe; But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet,