Read it through once

TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands, To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this. Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyred signs. She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brewed with her sorrow, meshed upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.