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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

What, are the Turtles fraide out of their neastes?

Alas poore fooles, must you be first shal feele

The sworne destruction of Damascus

They know my custome: could they not as well

Have sent ye out, when first my milkwhite flags

Through which sweet mercie threw her gentle beams,

Reflexing them on your disdainfull eies:

As now when furie and incensed hate

Flings slaughtering terrour from my coleblack tents.

And tels for trueth, submissions comes too late.

Virgins, in vaine ye labour to prevent

That which mine honor sweares shal be perform'd:

Behold my sword, what see you at the point?

Your fearfull minds are thicke and mistie then,

For there sits Death, there sits imperious Death,

Keeping his circuit by the slicing edge.

But I am pleasde you shall not see him there:

He now is seated on my horsmens speares,

And on their points his fleshlesse bodie feedes.

Techelles, straight goe charge a few of them

To chardge these Dames, and shew my servant death,

Sitting in scarlet on their armed speares.

Away with them I say and shew them death.

They [Techelles and soldiers] take them away.

I will not spare these proud Egyptians,

Nor change my Martiall observations,

For all the wealth of Gehons golden waves.

Or for the love of Venus, would she leave

The angrie God of Armes, and lie with me.

They have refusde the offer of their lives,

And know my customes are as peremptory

As wrathfull Planets, death, or destinie.

Enter Techelles.

What, have your horsmen shewen the virgins Death?

Asight as banefull to their soules I think

Asare Thessalian drugs or Mithradate.

But goe my Lords, put the rest tothe sword.

Exeunt. [Manet Tamburlaine.]

Ah faire Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate,

Faire is too foule an Epithite for thee,

That in thy passion for thy countries love,

And feare to see thy kingly Fathers harme,

With haire discheweld wip'st thy watery cheeks:

And like to Flora in her mornings pride,

Shaking her silver tresses in the aire,

Rain'st on the earth resolved pearle in showers,

And sprinklest Saphyrs on thy shining face,

Wher Beauty, mother tothe Muses sits,

And comments vollumes with her Ivory pen:

Taking instructions from thy flowing eies,

Eies when that Ebena steps to heaven,

In silence of thy solemn Evenings walk,

Making the mantle of the richest night,

The Moone, the Planets, and the Meteors light.

There Angels in their christal armours fight

A doubtfull battell with my tempted thoughtes,

For Egypts freedom and the Souldans life:

His life that so consumes Zenocrate,

Whose sorrowes lay more siege unto my soule,

Than all my Army to Damascus walles.

And neither Perseans Soveraign, nor the Turk

Troubled my sences with conceit of foile,

So much by much, as dooth Zenocrate

What is beauty, saith my sufferings then?

If all the pens that ever poets held,

Had fed the feeling of their maisters thoughts,

And every sweetnes that inspir'd their harts,

Their minds, and muses on admyred theames:

If all the heavenly Quintessence they still

From their immortall flowers of Poesy,

Wherein as in a myrrour we perceive

The highest reaches of a humaine wit:

If these had made one Poems period

And all combin'd in Beauties worthinesse,

Yet should ther hover in their restlesse heads,

One thought, one grace, one woonder at the least,

Which into words no vertue can digest:

But how unseemly is it for my Sex,

My discipline of armes and Chivalrie,

My nature and the terrour of my name,

To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint?

Save onely that in Beauties just applause,

With whose instinct the soule of man is toucht,

And every warriour that is rapt with love

Of fame, of valour, and of victory,

Must needs have beauty beat on his conceites.

I thus conceiving and subduing both:

That which hath stooptthe tempest of the Gods,

Even from the fiery spangled vaile of heaven,

To feele the lovely warmth of shepheards flames,

And martch in cottages of strowed weeds :

Shal give the world to note, for all my byrth,

That Vertue solely is the sum of glorie,

And fashions men with true nobility.

Who's within there?

Enter two or three.

Hath Bajazeth bene fed to day?

Bring him forth, and let us know if the towne be

ransackt.

Thats wel Techelles, what's the newes?

No more there is not I warrant thee Techelles.

That will we chiefly see unto, Theridamas ,

For sweet Zenocrate, whose worthinesse

Deserves a conquest over every hart:

And now my footstoole, if I loose the field,

You hope of libertie and restitution:

Here let him stay my maysters from the tents,

Till we have made us ready for the field.

Pray for us Bajazeth, we are going.

Come happy Father of Zenocrate,

A title higher than thy Souldans name:

Though my right hand have thus enthralled thee,

Thy princely daughter here shall set thee free.

She that hath calmde the furie of my sword,

Which had ere this bin bathde in streames of blood,

As vast and deep as Euphrates or Nile.

Twas I my lord that get the victory,

And therfore grieve not at your overthrow,

Since I shall render all into your hands.

And ad more strength to your dominions

Than ever yet confirm'd th'Egyptian Crown.

The God of war resignes his roume to me,

Meaning to make me Generall of the world,

Jove viewing me in armes, lookes pale and wan,

Fearing my power should pull him from his throne.

Where ere I come the fatall sisters sweat,

And griesly death, by running to and fro,

To doo their ceassles homag to my sword:

And here in Affrick where it seldom raines,

Since I arriv'd with my triumphant hoste,

Have swelling cloudes drawen from wide gasping woundes,

Bene oft resolv'd in bloody purple showers,

A meteor that might terrify the earth,

And make it quake at every drop it drinks:

Millions of soules sit on the bankes of Styx,

Waiting the back returne of Charons boat,

Hell and Elisian swarme with ghosts of men,

That I have sent from sundry foughten fields,

To spread my fame through hell and up to heaven:

And see my Lord, a sight of strange import,

Emperours and kings lie breathlesse at my feet.

The Turk and his great Emperesse as it seems,

Left to themselves while we were at the fight,

Have desperatly dispatcht their slavish lives:

With them Arabia too hath left his life,

Al sights of power to grace my victory:

And such are objects fit for Tamburlaine.

Wherein as in a mirrour may be seene,

His honor, that consists in sheading blood,

When men presume to manage armes with him.

Her state and person wants no pomp you see,

And for all blot of foule inchastity,

I record heaven, her heavenly selfe is cleare:

Then let me find no further time tograce

Her princely Temples with the Persean crowne:

But here these kings that on my fortunes wait,

And have bene crown'd for prooved worthynesse:

Even by this hand that shall establish them,

Shal now, adjoining al their hands with mine,

Invest her here my Queene of Persea .

What saith the noble Souldane and Zenocrate?

Then doubt I not but faire Zenocrate

Will soone consent to satisfy us both.

Then sit thou downe divine Zenocrate,

And here we crowne thee Queene of Persea,

And all the kingdomes and dominions

That late the power of Tamburlaine subdewed:

As Juno, when the Giants were supprest,

That darted mountaines at her brother Jove:

So lookes my Love, shadowing in her browes

Triumphes and Trophees for my victories:

Or as Latonas daughter bent to armes,

Adding more courage to my conquering mind.

To gratify the sweet Zenocrate,

Egyptians, Moores and men o Asia ,

From Barbary unto the Westerne Inde ,

Shall pay a yearly tribute to thy Syre.

And from the boundes of Affrick to the banks

Of Ganges, shall his mighty arme extend.

And now my Lords and loving followers,

That purchac'd kingdomes by your martiall deeds,

Cast off your armor, put on scarlet roabes.

Mount up your royall places of estate,

Environed with troopes of noble men,

And there make lawes to rule your provinces:

Hang up your weapons on Alcides poste,

For Tamburlaine takes truce with al the world.

Thy first betrothed Love, Arabia,

Shall we with honor (as beseemes) entombe,

With this great Turke and his faire Emperesse:

Then after all these solemne Exequies,

We wil our celebrated rites of mariage solemnize.

Tamburlaine Part 1