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.
