The Tragedy of Titus Andronicus

Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a sceptre to control the world:
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.

Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will;

Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;

Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal emperor!

Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms court'sy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.

This scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;

they are both, baked in that pie;

Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.

Was it well done of rash Virginius
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd?

For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome:
Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places.