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Sweet Almeda, pity the ruthfull plight
Of Callapine, the sonne of Bajazeth,
Born to be Monarch of the Western world:
Yet here detain'd by quell Tamburlaine.
My Lord I pitie it, and with my heart
Wish your release, but he whose wrath is death,
My soveraigne Lord, renowmed Tamburlain,
Forbids you further liberty than this.
Ah were I now but halfe so eloquent
To paint in woords, what Ile perfourme in deeds,
I know thou wouldst depart from hence with me.
Not for all Affrike, therefore moove me not.
Yet heare me speake my gentle Almeda.
No speech to that end, by your favour sir.
By Cairo runs—
No talke of running, I tell you sir.
A litle further, gentle Almeda.
Wel sir, what of this?
By Cairo runs to Alexandria Bay,
Darotes streames, wherin at anchor lies
A Turkish Gally of my royall fleet,
Waiting my comming to the river side,
Hoping by some means I shall be releast,
Which when I come aboord will hoist up saile,
And soon put foorth into the Terrene sea:
Where twixt the Isles of Cyprus and of Creete,
We quickly may in Turkish seas arrive.
Then shalt thou see a hundred kings and more
Upon their knees, all bid me welcome home.
Amongst so many crownes of burnisht gold,
Choose which thou wilt, all are at thy command.
A thousand Gallies mann'd with Christian slaves
I freely give thee, which shall cut the straights,
And bring Armados from the coasts of Spaine,
Fraughted with golde of rich America:
The Grecian virgins shall attend on thee,
Skilful in musicke and in amorous lades:
As faire as was Pigmalions Ivory gyrle,
Or lovely Io metamorphosed.
With naked Negros shall thy coach be drawer,
And as thou rid'st in triumph through the streets,
The pavement underneath thy chariot wheels
With Turky Carpets shall be covered:
And cloath of Arras hung about the walles,
Fit objects for thy princely eie to pierce.
A hundred Bassoes cloath'd in crimson silk
Shall ride before the on Barbarian Steeds:
And when thou goest, a golden Canapie
Enchac'd with pretious stones, which shine as bright
As that faire vail that covers all the world:
When Phoebus leaping from his Hemi-Spheare,
Discendeth downward to th'Antipodes.
And more than this, for all I cannot tell.
How far hence lies the Galley, say you?
Sweet Almeda, scarse halfe a league from hence.
But need we not be spied going aboord?
Betwixt the hollow hanging of a hill
And crooked bending of a craggy rock,
The sailes wrapt up, the mast and tacklings downe,
She lies so close that none can find her out.
I like that well: but tel me my Lord, if I should let you
goe, would you bee as good as your word? Shall I be made a king
for my labour? Callapine
As I am Callapine the Emperour,
And by the hand of Mahomet I sweare,
Thou shalt be crown'd a king and be my mate.
Then here I sweare, as I am Almeda,
Your Keeper under Tamburlaine the great,
(For that's the style and tytle I have yet)
Although he sent a thousand armed men
To intercept this haughty enterprize,
Yet would I venture to conduct your Grace,
And die before I brought you backe again.
Thanks gentle Almeda, then let us haste,
Least time be past, and lingring let us both.
When you will my Lord, I am ready.
Even straight: and farewell cursed Tamburlaine.
Now goe I to revenge my fathers death.