Act 5, Scene 1[Enter] The Governour of Damasco, with three or foure Citizens, and foure Virgins, with branches of Laurell in their hands.
Stil dooth this man or rather God of war,
Batter our walles, and beat our Turrets downe.
And to resist with longer stubbornesse,
Or hope of rescue from the Souldans power,
Were but to bring our wilfull overthrow,
And make us desperate of our threatned lives:
We see his tents have now bene altered,
With terrours to the last and cruelst hew:
His cole-blacke collours every where advaunst,
Threaten our citie with a generall spoile:
And if we should with common rites of Armes,
Offer our safeties to his clemencie,
I feare the custome proper to his sword,
Which he observes as parcell of his fame,
Intending so to terrifie the world:
By any innovation or remorse,
Will never be dispenc'd with til our deaths.
Therfore, for these our harmlesse virgines sakes,
Whose honors and whose lives relie on him:
Let us have hope that their unspotted praiers,
Their blubbered cheekes and hartie humble mones
Will melt his furie into some remorse:
And use us like a loving Conquerour.
If humble suites or imprecations,
(Uttered with teares of wretchednesse and blood,
Shead from the heads and hearts; of all our Sex,
Some made your wives, and some your children)
Might have intreated your obdurate breasts,
To entertaine some care of our securities,
Whiles only danger beat upon our walles,
These more than dangerous warrants of our death,
Had never bene erected as they bee,
Nor you depend on such weake helps as we.
Wel, lovely Virgins, think our countries care,
Our love of honor loth to be enthral'd
To forraine powers, and rough imperious yokes:
Would not with too much cowardize or feare,
Before all hope of rescue were denied,
Submit your selves and us to servitude.
Therefore in that your safeties and our owne,
Your honors, liberties and lives were weigh'd
In equall care and ballance with our owne,
Endure as we the malice of our stars,
The wrath of Tamburlain, and power of warres.
Or be the means the overweighing heavens
Have kept to quallifie these hot extreames,
And bring us pardon in your chearfull lookes.
Then here before the majesty of heaven,
And holy Patrones of Egyptia,
With knees and hearts submissive we intreate
Grace to our words and pitie to our lookes,
That this devise may proove propitious,
And through the eies and eares of Tamburlaine,
Convey events of mercie to his heart:
Graunt that these signes of victorie we yeeld
May bind the temples of his conquering head,
To hide the folded furrowes of his browes,
And shadow his displeased countenance,
With happy looks of ruthe and lenity.
Leave us my Lord, and loving countrimen,
What simple Virgins may perswade, we will.
Farewell (sweet Virgins) on whose safe return
Depends our citie, libertie, and lives.
Exeunt [Manent Virgins.]
[Enter] Tamburlaine,Techelles,Theridamas, Usumcasane,with others: Tamburlaine all in blacke, and verie melancholy.
What, are the Turtles fraide out of their neastes?
Alas poore fooles, must you be first shal feele
The sworne destruction of Damascus
They know my custome: could they not as well
Have sent ye out, when first my milkwhite flags
Through which sweet mercie threw her gentle beams,
Reflexing them on your disdainfull eies:
As now when furie and incensed hate
Flings slaughtering terrour from my coleblack tents.
And tels for trueth, submissions comes too late.
Most happy King and Emperour of the earth,
Image of Honor and Nobilitie.
For whome the Powers divine have made the world,
And on whose throne the holy Graces sit.
In whose sweete person is compriz'd the Sum
Of natures Skill and heavenly majestic.
Pittie our plightes, O pitie poore Damascus:
Pitie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honor and reverence evermore have raign'd,
Pitie the mariage bed, where many a Lord
In prime and glorie of his loving joy,
Embraceth now with teares of ruth and blood,
The jealous bodie of his fearfull wife,
Whose cheekes and hearts so punisht with conceit,
To thinke thy puisant never staied arme
Will part their bodies, and prevent their soules
From heavens of comfort, yet their age might beare,
Now waxe all pale and withered to the death,
As well for griefe our ruthlesse Governour
Have thus refusde the mercie of thy hand,
(Whose scepter Angels kisse, and Furies dread)
As for their liberties, their loves or lives.
O then for these, and such as we our selves,
For us, for infants, and for all our bloods,
That never nourisht thought against thy rule,
Pitie, O pitie, (sacred Emperour)
The prostrate service of this wretched towne.
And take in signe thereof this gilded wreath,
Whereto ech man of rule hath given his hand,
And wisht as worthy subjects happy meanes,
To be investers of thy royall browes,
Even with the true Egyptian Diadem.
Virgins, in vaine ye labour to prevent
That which mine honor sweares shal be perform'd:
Behold my sword, what see you at the point?
Nothing but feare and fatall steele my Lord.
Your fearfull minds are thicke and mistie then,
For there sits Death, there sits imperious Death,
Keeping his circuit by the slicing edge.
But I am pleasde you shall not see him there:
He now is seated on my horsmens speares,
And on their points his fleshlesse bodie feedes.
Techelles, straight goe charge a few of them
To chardge these Dames, and shew my servant death,
Sitting in scarlet on their armed speares.
Away with them I say and shew them death.
They [Techelles and soldiers] take them away.
I will not spare these proud Egyptians,
Nor change my Martiall observations,
For all the wealth of Gehons golden waves.
Or for the love of Venus, would she leave
The angrie God of Armes, and lie with me.
They have refusde the offer of their lives,
And know my customes are as peremptory
As wrathfull Planets, death, or destinie.
What, have your horsmen shewen the virgins Death?
They have my Lord, and on Damascus wals
Have hoisted up their slaughtered carcases.
Asight as banefull to their soules I think
Asare Thessalian drugs or Mithradate.
But goe my Lords, put the rest tothe sword.
Exeunt. [Manet Tamburlaine.]
Ah faire Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate,
Faire is too foule an Epithite for thee,
That in thy passion for thy countries love,
And feare to see thy kingly Fathers harme,
With haire discheweld wip'st thy watery cheeks:
And like to Flora in her mornings pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the aire,
Rain'st on the earth resolved pearle in showers,
And sprinklest Saphyrs on thy shining face,
Wher Beauty, mother tothe Muses sits,
And comments vollumes with her Ivory pen:
Taking instructions from thy flowing eies,
Eies when that Ebena steps to heaven,
In silence of thy solemn Evenings walk,
Making the mantle of the richest night,
The Moone, the Planets, and the Meteors light.
There Angels in their christal armours fight
A doubtfull battell with my tempted thoughtes,
For Egypts freedom and the Souldans life:
His life that so consumes Zenocrate,
Whose sorrowes lay more siege unto my soule,
Than all my Army to Damascus walles.
And neither Perseans Soveraign, nor the Turk
Troubled my sences with conceit of foile,
So much by much, as dooth Zenocrate
What is beauty, saith my sufferings then?
If all the pens that ever poets held,
Had fed the feeling of their maisters thoughts,
And every sweetnes that inspir'd their harts,
Their minds, and muses on admyred theames:
If all the heavenly Quintessence they still
From their immortall flowers of Poesy,
Wherein as in a myrrour we perceive
The highest reaches of a humaine wit:
If these had made one Poems period
And all combin'd in Beauties worthinesse,
Yet should ther hover in their restlesse heads,
One thought, one grace, one woonder at the least,
Which into words no vertue can digest:
But how unseemly is it for my Sex,
My discipline of armes and Chivalrie,
My nature and the terrour of my name,
To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint?
Save onely that in Beauties just applause,
With whose instinct the soule of man is toucht,
And every warriour that is rapt with love
Of fame, of valour, and of victory,
Must needs have beauty beat on his conceites.
I thus conceiving and subduing both:
That which hath stooptthe tempest of the Gods,
Even from the fiery spangled vaile of heaven,
To feele the lovely warmth of shepheards flames,
And martch in cottages of strowed weeds:
Shal give the world to note, for all my byrth,
That Vertue solely is the sum of glorie,
And fashions men with true nobility.
Who's within there?
Enter two or three.
Hath Bajazeth bene fed to day?
I, my Lord.
Bring him forth, and let us know if the towne be
Enter Techelles, Theridamas, Usumcasane, and others.
The town is ours my Lord, and fresh supply
Of conquest, and of spoile is offered us.
Thats wel Techelles, what's the newes?
The Souldan and the Arabian king together
Martch on us withsuch eager violence,
As if there were no way but one with us.
No more there is not I warrant thee Techelles.
They bring in the Turke [in his cage, and Zabina].
We know the victorie is ours my Lord,
But let us save the reverend Souldans life,
For faire Zenocrate, that so laments his state.
That will we chiefly see unto, Theridamas,
For sweet Zenocrate, whose worthinesse
Deserves a conquest over every hart:
And now my footstoole, if I loose the field,
You hope of libertie and restitution:
Here let him stay my maysters from the tents,
Till we have made us ready for the field.
Pray for us Bajazeth, we are going.
Exeunt. [Manent Bajazeth and Zabina.]
Go, never to returne with victorie:
Millions of men encompasse thee about,
And gore thy body with as many wounds.
Sharpe forked arrowes light upon thy horse:
Furies from the blacke Cocitus lake,
Breake up the earth, and with their firebrands,
Enforce thee run upon the banefull pikes.
Volleyes of shot pierce through thy charmed Skin,
And every bullet dipt in poisoned drugs,
Or roaring Cannons sever all thy joints,
Making thee mount as high as Eagles soare.
Let all the swords and Lances in the field,
Stick in his breast, as in their proper roomes.
At every pore let blood comme dropping foorth,
That lingring paines may massacre his heart.
And madnesse send his damned soule to hell.
Ah faire Zabina, we may curse his power,
The heavens may frowne, the earth for anger quake,
But such a Star hath influence in his sword,
As rules the Skies, and countermands the Gods:
More than Cymerian Stix or Distinie.
And then shall we in this detested guyse,
With shame, with hunger, and with horror aie
Griping our bowels with retorqued thoughtes,
And have no hope to end our extasies.
Then is there left no Mahomet, no God,
No Feend, no Fortune, nor no hope of end
To our infamous monstrous slaveries?
Gape earth, and let the Feends infernall view
A hell, as hoplesse and as full of feare,
As are the blasted banks of Erelus:
Where shaking ghosts with ever howling gropes,
Hover about the ugly Ferriman, To get a passage to Elisiean.
Why should we live, O wretches, beggars, slaves,
Why live we Bajazeth, and build up neasts,
So high within the region of the aire,
By living long in this oppression,
That all the world will see and laugh to scorne,
The former triumphes of our mightines,
In this obscure infernall servitude?
Olife more loathsome to my vexed thoughts,
Than noisome parbreak of the Stygian Snakes,
Which fils the nookes of Hell with standing aire,
Infecting all the Ghosts with curelesse griefs:
O dreary Engines of my loathed sight,
That sees my crowne, my honor and my name,
Thrust under yoke and thraldom of a thiefe.
Why feed ye still on daies accursed beams,
And sink not quite into my tortur'd soule.
You see my wife, my Queene and Emperesse,
Brought up and propped by the hand of fame,
Queen of fifteene contributory Queens,
Now thrower to roomes of blacke abjection,
Smear'd with blots of basest drudgery:
And Villanesse to shame, disdaine, and misery:
Accursed Bajazeth, whose words of ruth,
That would with pity cheer Zabinas heart,
And make our soules resolve in ceasles teares:
Sharp hunger bites upon and gripes the root,
From whence the issues of my thoughts doe breake:
O poore Zabina, O my Queen, my Queen,
Fetch me some water for my burning breast,
To coole and comfort me with longer date,
That in the shortned sequel of my life,
I may poure foorth my soule into thine armes,
With words of love: whose moaning entercourse
Hath hetherto bin staid, with wrath and hate
Of our expreslesse band inflictions.
Sweet Bajazeth, I will prolong thy life,
As long as any blood or sparke of breath
Can quench or coole the torments of my griefe.
She goes out.
Now Bajazeth, abridge thy banefull daies,
And beat thy braines out of thy conquer'd head:
Since other meanes are all forbidden me,
That may be ministers of my decay.
O highest Lamp of everliving Jove,
Accursed day infected with my griefs,
Hide now thy stained face in endles night,
And shut the windowes of the lightsome heavens.
Let ugly darknesse with her rusty coach
Engyrt with tempests wrapt in pitchy clouds,
Smother the earth with never fading misses:
And let her horses from their nostrels breathe
Rebellious winds and dreadfull thunderclaps:
That in this terrour Tamburlaine may live.
And my pin'd soule resolv'd in liquid ayre,
May styl excruciat his tormented thoughts.
Then let the stony dart of sencelesse colde,
Pierce through the center of my withered heart,
And make a passage for my loathed life.
He brains himself against the cage.
What do mine eies behold, my husband dead?
His Skul al rivin in twain, his braines dasht out?
The braines of Bajazeth, my Lord and Soveraigne?
O Bajazeth, my husband and my Lord,
O Bajazeth, O Turk, O Emperor.
Give him his liquor? Not I, bring milk and fire, and my blood I
bring him againe, teare me in peeces, give me the sworde with a
ball of wildefire upon it. Downe with him, downe with him. Goe
to, my child, away, away, away. Ah, save that Infant, save him,
save him. I,even I speake to her. The Sun was downe. Streamers
white, Red, Blacke. Here, here, here. Fling the meat in his face.
Tamburlaine, Tamburlaine.Let the souldiers be buried. Hel, death, Tamburlain, Hell. Make ready my Coch, my chaire, my jewels, I
come, I come, I come. She runs against the Cage and braines her selfe.
Wretched Zenocrate, that livest to see,
Damascus walles di'd with Egyptian blood:
Thy Frathers subjects and thy countrimen.
Thy streetes strowed with dissevered jointes of men,
And wounded bodies gasping yet for life.
But most accurst, to see the Sun-bright troope
Of heavenly vyrgins and unspotted maides,
Whose lookes might make the angry God of armes,
To breake his sword, and mildly treat of love,
On horsmens Lances to be hoisted up,
And guiltlesly endure a quell death.
Eor every fell and stout Tartarian Stead
That stamps on others with their thundring hooves,
When al their riders chardg'd their quivering speares
Began to checke the ground, and rain themselves:
Gazing upon the beautie of their lookes:
Ah Tamburlaine, wert thou the cause of this
That tearm'st Zenocrate thy dearest love?
Whose lives were dearer to Zenocrate
Than her owne life, or ought save shine owne love.
But see another bloody spectacle.
Ah wretched eies, the enemies of my hart,
How are ye glutted with these grievous objects,
And tell my soule mor tales of bleeding rush?
See, se Anippe if they breathe or no.
No breath nor sence, nor motion in them both.
Ah Madam, this their slavery hath Enforc'd,
And ruthlesse cruelty of Tamburlaine.
Earth cast up fountaines from thy entralles,
And wet thy cheeks for their untimely deathes:
Shake with their weight in signe of feare and griefe:
Blush heaven, that gave them honor at their birth,
And let them die a death so barbarous.
Those that are proud of fickle Empery,
And place their chiefest good in earthly pompe:
Behold the Turke and his great Emperesse.
Ah Tamburlaine, my love, sweet Tamburlaine,
That fights for Scepters and for slippery crownes,
Behold the Turk and his great Emperesse.
Thou that in conduct of thy happy stars,
Sleep'st every night with conquest on thy browes,
And yet wouldst shun the wavering turnes of war,
In feare and feeling of the like distresse,
Behold the Turke and his great Emperesse.
Ah myghty Jove and holy Mahomet,
Pardon my Love, oh pardon his contempt,
Of earthly fortune, and respect of pitie,
And let not conquest ruthlesly pursewde
Be equally against his life incenst,
In this great Turk and haplesse Emperesse.
And pardon me that was not moov'd with ruthe,
To see them live so long in misery:
Ah what may chance to thee Zenocrate?
Madam content your self and be resolv'd,
Your Love hath fortune so at his command,
That she shall stay and turne her wheele no more,
As long as life maintaines his mighty arme,
That fights for honor to adorne your head.
Enter [Philemus,] a Messenger.
What other heavie news now brings Philemus?
Madam, your father and th'Arabian king,
The first affecter of your excellence,
Comes now as Turnus gainst Eneas did,
Armed with lance into the Egyptian fields,
Ready for battaile gainst my Lord the King.
Now shame and duty, love and feare presents
A thousand sorrowes to my martyred soule:
Whom should I wish the fatall victory,
When my poore pleasures are devided thus,
And racks by dutie from my cursed heart:
My father and my first betrothed love,
Must fight against my life and present love:
Wherin the change I use condemns my faith,
And makes my deeds infamous through the world.
But as the Gods to end the Troyans toile,
Prevented Turnus of Lavinia,
And fatally enricht Eneas love.
So for a finall Issue to my griefes,
Topacifie my countrie and my love,
Must Tamburlaine by their resistlesse powers,
With vertue of a gentle victorie,
Conclude a league of honor to my hope.
Then as the powers devine have preordainde.
With happy safty of my fathers life,
Send like defence of faire Arabia.
They sound to the battaile. And Tamburlaineenjoyes the victory, after Arabia enters wounded.
What cursed power guides the murthering hands,
Of this infamous Tyrants souldiers,
That no escape may save their enemies:
Nor fortune keep them selves from victory.
Lye down Arabia, wounded to the death,
And let Zenocrates faire eies beholde
That as for her thou bearst these wretched armes,
Even so for her thou diest in these armes:
Leaving thy blood for witnesse of thy love.
Too deare a witnesse for such love my Lord.
Behold Zenocrate, the cursed object
Whose Fortunes never mastered her griefs:
Behold her wounded in conceit for thee,
As much as thy faire body is for me.
Then shal I die with full contented heart,
Having beheld devine Zenocrate,
Whose sight with joy would take away my life,
As now it bringeth sweemesse to my wound,
If I had not bin wounded as I am.
Ah that the deadly panges I suffer now,
Would lend an howers license to my tongue:
To make discourse of some sweet accidents
Have chanc'd thy merits in this worthies bondage.
And that I might be privy to the state,
Of thy deserv'd contentment and thy love:
But making now a vertue of thy sight,
To drive all sorrow from my fainting soule:
Since Death denies me further cause of joy,
Depriv'd of care, my heart with comfort dies,
Since thy desired hand shall close mine eies.
Enter Tamburlain leading the Souldane, Techelles, Theridamas, Usumcasane, with others.
Come happy Father of Zenocrate,
A title higher than thy Souldans name:
Though my right hand have thus enthralled thee,
Thy princely daughter here shall set thee free.
She that hath calmde the furie of my sword,
Which had ere this bin bathde in streames of blood,
As vast and deep as Euphrates or Nile.
O sight thrice welcome to my joiful soule,
To see the king my Father issue safe,
From dangerous batter of my conquering Love.
Wel met my only deare Zenocrate,
Though with the losse of Egypt and my Crown.
Twas I my lord that get the victory,
And therfore grieve not at your overthrow,
Since I shall render all into your hands.
And ad more strength to your dominions
Than ever yet confirm'd th'Egyptian Crown.
The God of war resignes his roume to me,
Meaning to make me Generall of the world,
Jove viewing me in armes, lookes pale and wan,
Fearing my power should pull him from his throne.
Where ere I come the fatall sisters sweat,
And griesly death, by running to and fro,
To doo their ceassles homag to my sword:
And here in Affrick where it seldom raines,
Since I arriv'd with my triumphant hoste,
Have swelling cloudes drawen from wide gasping woundes,
Bene oft resolv'd in bloody purple showers,
A meteor that might terrify the earth,
And make it quake at every drop it drinks:
Millions of soules sit on the bankes of Styx,
Waiting the back returne of Charons boat,
Hell and Elisian swarme with ghosts of men,
That I have sent from sundry foughten fields,
To spread my fame through hell and up to heaven:
And see my Lord, a sight of strange import,
Emperours and kings lie breathlesse at my feet.
The Turk and his great Emperesse as it seems,
Left to themselves while we were at the fight,
Have desperatly dispatcht their slavish lives:
With them Arabia too hath left his life,
Al sights of power to grace my victory:
And such are objects fit for Tamburlaine.
Wherein as in a mirrour may be seene,
His honor, that consists in sheading blood,
When men presume to manage armes with him.
Mighty hath God and Mahomet made thy hand
(Renowmed Tamburlain) to whom all kings
Of force must yeeld their crownes and Emperies:
And I am pleasde with this my overthrow,
If as beseemes a person of thy state,
Thou hast with honor usde Zenocrate.
Her state and person wants no pomp you see,
And for all blot of foule inchastity,
I record heaven, her heavenly selfe is cleare:
Then let me find no further time tograce
Her princely Temples with the Persean crowne:
But here these kings that on my fortunes wait,
And have bene crown'd for prooved worthynesse:
Even by this hand that shall establish them,
Shal now, adjoining al their hands with mine,
Invest her here my Queene of Persea.
What saith the noble Souldane and Zenocrate?
I yeeld with thanks and protestations
Of endlesse honor to thee for her love.
Then doubt I not but faire Zenocrate
Will soone consent to satisfy us both.
Els should I much forget my self, my Lord.
Then let us set the crowne upon her head,
That long hath lingred for so high a seat.
Myhand is ready to performe the deed,
For now her mariage time shall worke us rest.
And here's the crown my Lord, help set it on.
Then sit thou downe divine Zenocrate,
And here we crowne thee Queene of Persea,
And all the kingdomes and dominions
That late the power of Tamburlaine subdewed:
As Juno, when the Giants were supprest,
That darted mountaines at her brother Jove:
So lookes my Love, shadowing in her browes
Triumphes and Trophees for my victories:
Or as Latonas daughter bent to armes,
Adding more courage to my conquering mind.
To gratify the sweet Zenocrate,
Egyptians, Moores and men o Asia,
From Barbary unto the Westerne Inde,
Shall pay a yearly tribute to thy Syre.
And from the boundes of Affrick to the banks
Of Ganges, shall his mighty arme extend.
And now my Lords and loving followers,
That purchac'd kingdomes by your martiall deeds,
Cast off your armor, put on scarlet roabes.
Mount up your royall places of estate,
Environed with troopes of noble men,
And there make lawes to rule your provinces:
Hang up your weapons on Alcides poste,
For Tamburlaine takes truce with al the world.
Thy first betrothed Love, Arabia,
Shall we with honor (as beseemes) entombe,
With this great Turke and his faire Emperesse:
Then after all these solemne Exequies,
We wil our celebrated rites of mariage solemnize.