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So, burne the turrets of this cursed towne,
Flame to the highest region of the aire:
And kindle heaps of exhalations,
That being fiery meteors, may presage,
Death and destruction to th'inhabitants.
Over my Zenith hang a blazing star,
That may endure till heaven be dissolv'd,
Fed with the fresh supply of earthly dregs,
Threatning a death and famine to this land,
Flieng Dragons, lightning, fearfull thunderclaps,
Sindge these fair plaines, and make them seeme as black
As is the Island where the Furies maske,
Compast with Lethe, Styx, and Phlegeton,
Because my deare Zenocrate is dead.
This Piller plac'd in memorie of her,
Where in Arabian, Hebrew, Greek, is writ
This towne being burnt by Tamburlaine the great,
Forbids the world to build it up againe.
And here this mournful streamer shal be plac'd
Wrought with the Persean and Egyptian armes,
To signifie she was a princesse borne,
And wife unto the Monarke of the East.
And here this table as a Register
Of all her vertues and perfections.
And here the picture of Zenocrate,
To shew her beautie, which the world admyr'd,
Sweet picture of divine Zenocrate,
That hanging here, wil draw the Gods from heaven:
And cause the stars fixt in the Southern arke,
Whose lovely faces never any viewed,
That have not past the Centers latitude,
As Pilgrimes traveile to our Hemi-spheare,
Onely to gaze upon Zenocrate.
Thou shalt not beautifie Larissa plaines,
But keep within the circle of mine armes.
At every towne and castle I besiege,
Thou shalt be set upon my royall tent.
And when I meet an armie in the field,
Those looks will shed such influence in my campe,
As if Bellona, Goddesse of the war
Threw naked swords and sulphur teals of fire,
Upon the heads of all our enemies.
And now my Lords, advance your speares againe,
Sorrow no more my sweet Casane now:
Boyes leave to mourne, this towne shall ever mourne,
Being burnt to cynders for your mothers death.
If I had wept a sea of teares for her,
It would not ease the sorrow I sustaine.
As is that towne, so is my heart consum'd,
With griefe and sorrow for my mothers death.
My mothers death hath mortified my mind,
And sorrow stops the passage of my speech.
But now my boies, leave off, and list to me,
That meane to teach you rudiments of war:
Ile have you learne to sleepe upon the ground,
March in your armour thorowe watery Fens,
Sustaine the scortching heat and freezing cold,
Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war.
And after this, to scale a castle wal,
Besiege a fort, to undermine a towne,
And make whole cyties caper in the aire.
Then next, the way to fortifie your men,
In champion grounds, what figure serves you best,
For which the quinque-angle fourme is meet:
Because the corners there may fall more flat,
Whereas the Fort may fittest be assailde,
And sharpest where th'assault is desperate.
The ditches must be deepe, the Counterscarps
Narrow and steepe, the wals made high and broad,
The Bulwarks and the rampiers large and strong,
With Cavalieros and thicke counterforts,
And roome within to lodge sixe thousand men.
It must have privy ditches, countermines,
And secret issuings to defend the ditch.
It must have high Argins and covered waies
To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,
And Parapets to hide the Muscatters:
Casemates to place the great Artillery,
And store of ordinance that from every flanke
May scoure the outward curtaines of the Fort,
Dismount the Cannon of the adverse part,
Murther the Foe and save the walles from breach.
When this is learn'd for service on the land,
By plaine and easie demonstration,
Ile teach you how to make the water mount,
That you may dryfoot martch through lakes and pooles,
Deep rivers, havens, creekes, and litle seas,
And make a Fortresse in the raging waves,
Fenc'd with the concave of a monstrous rocke,
Invincible by nature of the place.
When this is done, then are ye souldiers,
And worthy sonnes of Tamburlain the great.
My Lord, but this is dangerous to be done,
We may be slaine or wounded ere we learne.
Villain, art thou the sonne of Tamburlaine,
And fear'st to die, or with a Curtle-axe
To hew thy flesh and make a gaping wound?
Hast thou beheld a peale of ordinance strike
A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,
Whose shattered rims, being tost as high as heaven,
Hang in the aire as thicke as sunny motes,
And canst thou Coward stand in feare of death?
Hast thou not scene my horsmen charge the foe,
Shot through the armes, cut overthwart the hands,
Dieng their lances with their streaming blood,
And yet at night carrouse within my tent,
Filling their empty vaines with aiery wine,
That being concocted, turnes to crimson blood,
And wilt thou shun the field for feare of woundes?
View me thy father that hath conquered kings,
And with his hoste martcht round about the earth,
Quite voice of skars, and cleare from any wound,
That by the warres lost not a dram of blood,
And see him lance his flesh to teach you all. He cuts his arme.
A wound is nothing be it nere so deepe,
Blood is the God of Wars rich livery.
Now look I like a souldier, and this wound
As great a grace and majesty to me,
As if a chaire of gold enamiled,
Enchac'd with Diamondes, Saphyres, Rubies
And fairest pearle of welthie India
Were mounted here under a Canapie:
And I sat downe, cloth'd with the massie robe,
That late adorn'd the Affrike Potentate,
Whom I brought bound unto Damascus walles.
Come boyes and with your fingers search my wound,
And in my blood wash all your hands at once,
While I sit smiling to behold the sight.
Now my boyes, what think you of a wound?
I know not what I should think of it. Me thinks tis a
Tis nothing: give me a wound father.
And me another my Lord.
Come sirra, give me your arme.
Here father, cut it bravely as you did your own. Tamburlaine
It shall suffice thou darst abide a wound.
My boy, Thou shalt not loose a drop of blood,
Before we meet the armie of the Turke.
But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,
Dreadlesse of blowes, of bloody wounds and death:
And let the burning of Larissa wals,
My speech of war, and this my wound you see,
Teach you my boyes to beare couragious minds,
Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine.
Usumcasane now come let us martch
Towards Techelles and Theridamas,
That we have sent before to fire the townes,
The towers and cities of these hateful! Turks,
And hunt that Coward, faintheart runaway,
With that accursed traitor Almeda,
Til fire and sword have found them at a bay.
I long to pierce his bowels with my sword,
That hath betraied my gracious Soveraigne,
That curst and damned Traitor Almeda.
Then let us see if coward Calapine
Dare levie armes against our puissance,
That we may tread upon his captive necke,
And treble all his fathers slaveries.