Now say my Lords of Buda and Bohemia,
What motion is it that inflames your thoughts,
And stirs your velures to such soddaine armes?
Your Majesty remembers I am sure
What quell slaughter of our Christian bloods,
These heathnish Turks and Pagans lately made,
Betwixt the citie Zula and Danubius,
How through the midst of Verna and Bulgaria
And almost to the very walles of Rome,
They have not long since massacred our Camp.
It resteth now then that your Majesty
Take all advantages of time and power,
And worke revenge upon these Infidels:
Your Highnesse knowes for Tamburlaines repaire,
That strikes a terrour to all Turkish hearts,
Natolia hath dismiss the greatest part
Of all his armie, pitcht against our power
Betwixt Cutheia and Orminius mount:
And sent them marching up to Belgasar,
Acantha, Antioch, and Caesaria,
To aid the kings of Soria and Jerusalem.
Now then my Lord, advantage take hereof,
And issue sodainly upon the rest:
That in the fortune of their overthrow,
We may discourage all the pagan troope,
That dare attempt to war with Christians.
But cals not then your Grace to memorie
The league we lately made with king Orcanes,
Confirm'd by oth and Articles of peace,
And calling Christ for record of our trueths?
This should be treacherie and violence,
Against the grace of our profession.
No whit my Lord: for with such Infidels,
In whom no faith nor true religion rests,
We are not bound to those accomplishments,
The holy lawes of christendome injoine:
But as the faith which they prophanely plight
Is not by necessary pollycy,
To be esteem'd assurance for our selves,
So what we vow to them should not infringe
Our liberty of armes and victory.
Though I confesse the othes they undertake,
Breed litle strength to our securitie,
Yet those infirmities that thus defame
Their faiths, their honors, and their religion,
Should not give us presumption to the like.
Our faiths are sound, and must be consumate,
Religious, righteous, and inviolate.
Assure your Grace tis superstition
To stand so strictly on dispensive faith:
And should we lose the opportunity
That God hath given to venge our Christians death
And scourge their foule blasphemous Paganisme?
As fell to Saule, to Balaam and the rest,
That would not kill and curse at Gods command,
So surely will the vengeance of the highest
And jealous anger of his fearefull arme
Be pour'd with rigour on our sinfull heads,
If we neglect this offered victory.
Then arme my Lords, and issue sodainly,
Giving commandement to our generall hoste,
With expedition to assaile the Pagan,
And take the victorie our God hath given.
Gazellus, Uribassa, and the rest,
Now will we march from proud Orminius mount
To faire Natolia, where our neighbour kings
Expect our power and our royall presence,
T'incounter with the quell Tamburlain,
That nigh Larissa swaies a mighty hoste,
And with the thunder of his martial tooles
Makes Earthquakes in the hearts of men and heaven.
And now come we to make his sinowes shake,
With greater power than erst his pride hath felt,
An hundred kings by scores wil bid him armes,
And hundred thousands subjects to each score:
Which if a shower of wounding thunderbolts
Should breake out off the bowels of the clowdes
And fall as thick as haile upon our heads,
In partiall aid of that proud Scythian,
Yet should our courages and steeled crestes,
And numbers more than infinit of men,
Be able to withstand and conquer him.
Me thinks I see how glad the christian King
Is made, for joy of your admitted truce:
That could not but before be terrified:
With unacquainted power of our hoste.
Enter a Messenger.
Arme dread Soveraign and my noble Lords.
The treacherous army of the Christians,
Taking advantage of your slender power,
Comes marching on us, and determines straight,
To bid us battaile for our dearest lives.
Traitors, villaines, damned Christians.
Have I not here the articles of peace,
And solemne covenants we have both confirm'd,
He by his Christ, and I by Mahomet?
Hel and confusion light upon their heads,
That with such treason seek our overthrow,
And cares so litle for their prophet Christ.
Can there be such deceit in Christians,
Or treason in the fleshly heart of man,
Whose shape is figure of the highest God?
Then if there be a Christ, as Christians say,
But in their deeds deny him for their Christ:
If he be son to everliving Jove,
And hath the power of his outstretched arme,
If he be jealous of his name and honor,
As is our holy prophet Mahomet,
Take here these papers as our sacrifice
And wimesse of thy servants perjury.
Open thou shining vaile of Cynthia
And make a passage from the imperiall heaven
That he that sits on high and never sleeps,
Nor in one place is circumscriptible,
But every where fils every Continent,
With strange infusion of his sacred vigor,
May in his endlesse power and puritie
Behold and venge this Traitors perjury.
Thou Christ that art esteem'd omnipotent,
If thou wilt proove thy selfe a perfect God,
Worthy the worship of all faithfull hearts,
Be now reveng'd upon this Traitors soule,
And make the power I have left behind
(Too litle to defend our guiltlesse lives)
Sufficient to discomfort and confound
The trustlesse force of those false Christians.
To armes my Lords, on Christ still let us crie,
If there be Christ, we shall have victorie.
Act Two, Scene ThreeSound to the battell, and Sigismond comes out wounded.
Discomfited is all the Christian hoste,
And God hath thundered vengeance from on high,
For my accurst and hatefull perjurie.
O just and dreadfull punisher of sinne,
Let the dishonor of the paines I feele,
In this my mortall well deserved wound,
End all my penance in my sodaine death,
And let this death wherein to sinne I die,
Conceive a second life in endlesse mercie.
Enter Orcanes, Gazellus, Uribassa, with others.
Now lie the Christians bathing in their bloods,
And Christ or Mahomet hath bene my friend.
See here the perjur'd traitor Hungary,
Bloody and breathlesse for his villany.
Now shall his barbarous body be a pray
To beasts and foules, and al the winds shall breath
Through shady leaves of every sencelesse tree,
Murmures and hisses for his heinous sin.
Now scaldes his soule in the Tartarian streames,
And feeds upon the baneful! tree of hell,
That Zoacum, that fruit of bytternesse,
That in the midst of fire is ingraft,
Yet flourisheth as Flora in her pride,
With apples like the heads of damned Feends.
The Dyvils there in chaines of quencelesse flame,
Shall lead his soule through Orcus burning gulfe:
From paine to paine, whose change shal never end:
What saiest thou yet Gazellus to his foile:
Which we referd to justice of his Christ,
And to his power, which here appeares as full
As rates of Cynthia to the clearest sight?
Tis but the fortune of the wars my Lord,
Whose power is often proov'd a myracle.
Yet in my thoughts shall Christ be honoured,
Not dooing Mahomet an injurie,
Whose power had share in this our victory:
And since this miscreant hath disgrac'd his faith,
And died a traitor both to heaven and earth,
We wil both watch and ward shall keepe his trunke
Amidst these plaines, for Foules to pray upon.
Go Uribassa, give it straight in charge.
I will my Lord.
Exit Uribassa [and soldiers with body].
And now Gazellus, let us haste and meete
Our Army and our brother of Jerusalem,
Of Soria, Trebizon and Amasia,
And happily with full Natolian bowles
Of Greekish wine now let us celebrate
Our happy conquest, and his angry fate.
Blacke is the beauty of the brightest day,
The golden belle of heavens eternal fire,
That danc'd with glorie on the silver waves,
Now wants the fewell that enflamde his beames:
And all with faintnesse and for foule disgrace,
He bindes his temples with a frowning cloude,
Ready to darken earth with endlesse night:
Zenocrate that gave him light and life,
Whose eies shot fire from their Ivory bowers,
And tempered every soule with lively heat,
Now by the malice of the angry Skies,
Whose jealousie admits no second Mate,
Drawes in the comfort of her latest breath
All dasled with the hellish mists of death.
Now walk the angels on the walles of heaven,
As Centinels to warne th'immortall soules,
To entertaine devine Zenocrate.
Apollo, Cynthia, and the ceaslesse lamps
That gently look'd upon this loathsome earth,
Shine downwards now no more, but deck the heavens
To entertaine divine Zenocrate.
The christall springs whose taste illuminates
Refined eies with an eternall sight,
Like tried silver runs through Paradice
To entertaine divine Zenocrate.
The Cherubins and holy Seraphins
That sing and play before the king of kings,
Use all their voices and their instruments
To entertaine divine Zenocrate.
And in this sweet and currious harmony,
The God that tunes this musicke to our soules,
Holds out his hand in highest majesty
To entertaine divine Zenocrate.
Then let some holy trance convey my thoughts,
Up to the pallace of th'imperiall heaven:
That this my life may be as short to me
As are the daies of sweet Zenocrate:
Phisitions, wil no phisicke do her good?
My Lord, your Majesty shall soone perceive:
And if she passe this fit, the worst is past.
Tell me, how fares my faire Zenocrate?
I fare my Lord, as other Emperesses,
That when this fraile and transitory flesh
Hath sucks the measure of that vitall aire
That feeds the body with his dated health,
Wanes with enforst and necessary change.
May never such a change transfourme my love
In whose sweet being I repose my life,
Whose heavenly presence beautified with health,
Gives light to Phoebus and the fixed stars,
Whose absence make the sun and Moone as darke
As when opposde in one Diamiter,
Their Spheares are mounted on the serpents head,
Or els discended to his winding traine:
Live still my Love and so conserve my life,
Or dieng, be the author of my death.
Live still my Lord, O let my soveraigne live,
And sooner let the fiery Element
Dissolve, and make your kingdome in the Sky,
Than this base earth should shroud your majesty:
For should I but suspect your death by mine,
The comfort of my future happinesse
And hope to meet your highnesse in the heavens,
Turn'd to dispaire, would break my wretched breast,
And furie would confound my present rest.
But let me die my Love, yet let me die,
With love and patience let your true love die,
Your griefe and furie hurtes my second life:
Yet let me kisse my Lord before I die,
And let me die with kissing of my Lord. [He kisses her.]
But since my life is lengthened yet a while,
Let me take leave of these my loving sonnes,
And of my Lords whose true nobilitie
Have merited my latest memorie:
Sweet sons farewell, in death resemble me,
And in your lives your fathers excellency.
Some musicke, and my fit wil cease my Lord.
They call musicke.
Proud furie and intollorable fit,
That dares torment the body of my Love,
And scourge the Scourge of the immortall God:
Now are those Spheares where Cupid usde to sit,
Wounding the world with woonder and with love,
Sadly supplied with pale and ghastly death,
Whose darts do pierce the Center of my soule:
Her sacred beauy hath enchaunted heaven,
And had she liv'd before the siege of Troy,
Hellen, whose beany sommond Greece to armes,
And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos,
Had not bene nam'd in Homers Iliads:
Her name had bene in every line he wrote:
Or had those wanton Poets, for whose byrth
Olde Rome was proud, but gasde a while on her,
Nor Lesbia, nor Corrinna had bene nam'd,
Zenocrate had bene the argument
Of every Epigram or Eligie.
The musicke sounds, and she dies.
What, is she dead? Techelles, draw thy sword,
And wound the earth, that it may cleave in twaine,
And we discend into the infernall vaults,
To haile the fatall Sisters by the haire,
And throw them in the triple mote of Hell,
For taking hence my faire Zenocrate.
Casene and Theridamas to armes:
Raise Cavalieros higher than the cloudes,
And with the cannon breake the frame of heaven,
Batter the shining pallace of the Sun,
And shiver all the starry firmament:
For amorous Jove hath snatcht my love from hence,
Meaning to make her stately Queene of heaven,
What God so ever holds thee in his armes,
Giving thee Nectar and Ambrosia,
Behold me here divine Zenocrate,
Raving, impatient, desperate and mad,
Breaking my steeled lance, with which I burst
The rusty beames of Janus Temple doores,
Letting out death and tyrannising war,
To martch with me under this bloody flag:
And if thou pitiest Tamburlain the great,
Come downe from heaven and live with me againe.
Ah good my Lord be patient, she is dead,
And all this raging cannot make her live,
If woords might serve, our voice hath rent the aire,
If teares, our eies have watered all the earth:
If griefe, our murthered harts have straind forth blood.
Nothing prevailes, for she is dead my Lord.
For she is dead? thy words doo pierce my soule.
Ah sweet Theridamas, say so no more,
Though she be dead, yet let me think she lives,
And feed my mind that dies for want of her:
Where ere her soule be, thou shalt stay with me
Embalm'd with Cassia, Amber Greece and Myrre,
Not lapt in lead but in a sheet of gold,
And till I die thou shalt not be interr'd.
Then in as rich a tombe as Meusolus,
We both will rest and have one Epitaph
Writ in as many severall languages,
As I have conquered kingdomes with my sword.
This cursed towne will I consume with fire,
Because this place bereft me of my Love:
The houses burnt, wil looke as if they mourn'd,
And here will I set up her stature
And martch about it with my mourning campe,
Drooping and pining for Zenocrate.
The Arras is drawen.