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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Tamburlaine Part 2

Act: 1 Scene: 3

Why may not I my Lord, as wel as he,

Be tearm'd the scourge and terrour of the world?

And I would strive to swim through pooles of blood,

Or make a bridge of murthered Carcases,

Whose arches should be fram'd with bones of Turks,

Ere I would loose the tytle of a king.

Act: 3 Scene: 2

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.

As is that towne, so is my heart consum'd,

With griefe and sorrow for my mothers death.

And me another my Lord.

Act: 4 Scene: 1

Now in their glories shine the golden crownes

Of these proud Turks, much like so many suns

That halfe dismay the majesty of heaven:

Now brother, follow we our fathers sword,

That flies with fury swifter than our thoughts,

And cuts down armies with his conquering wings.

Brother, ho, what, given so much to sleep

You cannot leave it, when our enemies drums

And ratling cannons thunder in our eares.

Our proper ruine, and our fathers foile?

What, dar'st thou then be absent from the fight,

Knowing my father hates thy cowardice,

And oft hath warn'd thee to be stil in field,

When he himselfe amidst the thickest troopes

Beats downe our foes to flesh our taintlesse swords?

You wil not goe then?

Were all the lofty mounts of Zona mundi,

That fill the midst of farthest Tartary,

Turn'd into pearle and proffered for my stay,

I would not bide the furie of my father:

When made a victor in these hautie arms ,

He comes and findes his sonnes have had no shares

In all the honors he proposde for us.

Shal we let goe these kings again my Lord

To gather greater numbers gainst our power,

That they may say, it is not chance doth this,

But matchlesse strength and magnanimity?

Good my Lord, let him be forgiven for once,

And we wil force him to the field hereafter.

Act: 4 Scene: 3

Let me have coach my Lord, that I may ride,

And thus be drawen with these two idle kings.

Act: 5 Scene: 1

They will talk still my Lord, if you doe not bridle them.

See now my Lord how brave the Captaine hangs.

Act: 5 Scene: 3

Alas my Lord, how should our bleeding harts

Wounded and broken with your Highnesse griefe,

Retaine a thought of joy, or sparke of life?

Your soul gives essence to our wretched subjects ,

Whose matter is incorporat in your flesh.

With what a flinty bosome should I joy,

The breath of life, and burthen of my soule,

If not resolv'd into resolved paines,

My bodies mortified lineaments

Should exercise the motions of my heart,

Pierc'd with the joy of any dignity?

O father, if the unrelenting eares

Of death and hell be shut against my praiers,

And that the spightfull influence of heaven,

Denie my soule fruition of her joy,

How should I step or stir my hatefull feete,

Against the inward powers of my heart,

Leading a life that onely strives to die,

And plead in vaine, unpleasing soverainty.

Heavens witnes me, with what a broken hart

And damned spirit I ascend this seat,

And send my soule before my father die,

His anguish and his burning agony.

Meet heaven and earth, and here let al things end,

For earth hath spent the pride of all her fruit,

And heaven consum'd his choicest living fire.

Let earth and heaven his timelesse death deplore,

For both their woorths wil equall him no more.