He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I’ll dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear; And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven and move the gods To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. “_Ad Jovem,_” that’s for you; here, “_Ad Apollinem_”; “_Ad Martem,_” that’s for myself; Here, boy, “to Pallas”; here, “to Mercury”; “To Saturn,” Caius, not to Saturnine; You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy.—Marcus, loose when I bid.— Of my word, I have written to effect; There’s not a god left unsolicited.

Titus Monologue from Titus Andronicus

Rehearse Titus's monologue