My Lord I pitie it, and with my heart

Wish your release, but he whose wrath is death,

My soveraigne Lord, renowmed Tamburlain ,

Forbids you further liberty than this.

Not for all Affrike, therefore moove me not.

No speech to that end, by your favour sir.

No talke of running, I tell you sir.

Wel sir, what of this?

How far hence lies the Galley, say you?

But need we not be spied going aboord?

I like that well: but tel me my Lord, if I should let you goe, would you bee as good as your word? Shall I be made a king for my labour?

Then here I sweare, as I am Almeda,

Your Keeper under Tamburlaine the great,

(For that's the style and tytle I have yet)

Although he sent a thousand armed men

To intercept this haughty enterprize,

Yet would I venture to conduct your Grace,

And die before I brought you backe again.

When you will my Lord, I am ready.