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Act Two, Scene Four

The Arras is drawen and Zenocrate lies in her bed of state, Tamburlaine sitting by her: three Phisitians about her bed, tempering potions. Theridamas, Techelles, Usumcasane, and the three sonnes.

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?

1. Phisitian
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.

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