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Act 4, Scene 1

[Enter] Souldan of Egipt with three or four Lords, Capolin [, and a Messenger.]

Awake ye men of Memphis, heare the clange
Of Scythian trumpets, heare the Basiliskes,
That roaring, shake Damascus turrets downe.
The rogue of Volge holds Zenocrate,
The Souldans daughter for his Concubine,
And with a troope of theeves and vagabondes,
Hath spread his collours to our high disgrace:
While you faint-hearted base Egyptians,
Lie slumbering on the flowrie bankes of Nile,
As Crocodiles that unaffrighted rest,
While thundring Cannons rattle on their Skins.

Nay (mightie Souldan) did your greames see
The frowning lookes of fiery Tamburlaine,
That with his terrour and imperious eies,
Commandes the hearts of his associates,
It might amaze your royall majesty.

Villain, I tell thee, were that Tamburlaine
As monstrous as
Gorgon, prince of Hell,
The Souldane would not start a foot from him.
But speake, what power hath he?

Mightie Lord,
Three hundred thousand men in armour clad,
Upon their prancing Steeds, disdainfully
With wanton paces trampling on the ground.
Five hundred thousand footmen threatning shot,
Shaking their swords, their speares and yron bils,
Environing their Standard round, that stood
As bristle-pointed as a thorny wood.
Their warlike Engins and munition
Exceed the forces of their martial men.

Nay could their numbers countervail the stars,
Or ever drilling drops of Aprill showers,
Or withered leaves that Autume shaketh downe:
Yet would the Souldane by his conquering power,
So scatter and consume them in his rage,
That not a man should live to rue their fall.

So might your highnesse, had you time to sore
Your fighting men, and raise your royall hoste.
But Tamburlaine, byexpedition
Advantage takes of your unreadinesse.

Let him take all th'advantages he can,
Were all the world conspird to fight for him,
Nay, were he Devill, as he is no man,
Yet in revenge of faire Zenocrate,
Whom he detaineth in despight of us,
This arme should send him downe to Erebus,
To shroud his shame in darknes of the night.

Pleaseth your mightinesse to understand,
His resolution far exceedeth all:
The first day when he pitcheth downe his tentes,
White is their hew, and on his silver crest
A snowy Feather spangled white he beares,
To signify the mildnesse of his minde:
That satiate with spoile refuseth blod.
But when Aurora mounts the second time,
As red as scarlet is his furniture,
Then must his kindled wrath bee quencht with blood,
Not sparing any that can manage armes.
But if these threats moove not submission,
Black are his collours, blacke Pavilion,
His speare, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes,
And Jetty Feathers menace death and hell.
Without respect of Sex, degree or age,
He raceth all his foes with fire and sword.

Mercilesse villaine, Pesant ignorant,
Of lawfull armes, or martiall discipline:
Pillage and murder are his usuall trades.
The slave usurps the glorious name of war.
See Capolin, the faire Arabian king
That hath bene disapointed by this slave
Of my faire daughter, and his princely Love:
May have fresh warning to go war with us,
And be reveng'd for her disparadgement.

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