Act 2, Scene 2[Enter] Mycetes, Meander, with other Lords and Souldiers.
Come my Meander, let us to this geere,
I tel you true my heart is swolne with wrath,
On this same theevish villaine Tamburlaine
And of that false Cosroe, my traiterous brother.
Would it not grieve a King to be so abusde,
And have a thousand horsmen tane away?
And which is worst to have his Diadem
Sought for by such scalde knaves as love him not?
I thinke it would: wel then, by heavens I sweare,
Aurora shatl not peepe out of her doves,
But I will have Cosroe by the head,
And kill proud Tamburlaine with point of sword.
Tell you the rest (Meander) I have said.
Then having past Armenian deserts now,
And pitcht our tents under the Georgean hilles,
Whose tops are covered with Tartarian thieves,
That lie in ambush, waiting for a pray:
What should we doe but bid them battaile straight,
And rid the world of those detested troopes?
Least if we let them lynger here a while,
They gather strength by power of fresh supplies.
This countrie swarmes with vile outragious men,
That live by rapine and by lawlesse spoile,
Fit Souldiers for the wicked Tamburlaine
And he that could with giftes and promises
Inveigle him that lead a thousand horse,
And make him false his faith unto his King,
Will quickly win such as are like himselfe.
Therefore cheere up your mindes, prepare to fight,
He that can take or slaughter Tamburlaine,
Shall rule the Province of Albania
Who brings that Traitors head Theridamas,
Shal have a government in Medea:
Beside the spoile of him and all his traine:
But if Cosroe (as our Spials say,
And as we know) remaines with Tamburlaine,
His Highnesse pleasure is that he should live,
And be reclaim'd with princely lenitie.
[Enter a Spy.]
An hundred horsmen of my company
Scowting abroad upon these champion plaines,
Have view'd the army of the Scythians,
Which make reports it far exceeds the Kings.
Suppose they be in number infinit,
Yet being void of Martiall discipline,
All running headlong after greedy spoiles:
And more regarding gaine than victory:
Like to the quell brothers of the earth,
Sprong of the teeth of Dragons venomous,
Their carelesse swords shal ranch their fellowes throats
And make us triumph in their overthrow.
Was there such brethren, sweet Meander, say,
That sprong of teeth of Dragons venomous?
So Poets say, my Lord.
And tis a prety toy to be a Poet.
Wel, wel (Meander) thou art deeply read:
And having thee, I have a jewell sure:
Go on my Lord, and give your charge I say,
Thy wit will make us Conquerors to day.
Then noble souldiors, to intrap these theeves,
That live confounded in disordered troopes,
If wealth or riches may prevaile with them,
We have our Cammels laden all with gold:
Which you that be but common souldiers,
Shall fling in every corner of the field:
And while the base borne Tartars take it up,
You fighting more for honor than for gold,
Shall massacre those greedy minded slaves.
And when their scattered armie is subdu'd,
And you march on their slaughtered carkasses:
Share equally the gold that bought their lives,
And live like Gentlemen in Persea.
Strike up the Drum and martch corragiously,
Fortune her selfe dooth sit upon our Crests.
He tells you true, my maisters, so he does.
Drums, why sound ye not when Meander speaks.