Read it through once

MARCUS. Now farewell, flattery; die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber. See thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banished son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?