And so mistake you not a whit my Lord.
For Fates and Oracles of heaven have sworne,
To roialise the deedes of Tamburlaine:
And make them blest that share in his attemptes.
And doubt you not, but if you favour me,
And let my Fortunes and my valour sway,
To some direction in your martiall deeds,
The world will strive with hostes of men at armes,
To swarme unto the Ensigne I support.
The host of Xerxes, which by fame is said
To drinke the mightie Parthian Araris,
Was but a handful to that we will have.
Our quivering Lances shaking in the aire,
And bullets like Joves dreadfull Thunderbolts,
Enrolde in flames and fiery smoldering misses,
Shall threat the Gods more than Cyclopian warres,
And with our Sun-bright armour as we march,
Weel chase the Stars from heaven, and dim their eies
That stand and muse at our admyred armes.
