The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Tamburlaine Part 2


Act: 3 Scene: 2
So, burne the turrets of this cursed towne,
Flame to the highest region of the aire:
And kindle heaps of exhalations,
That being fiery meteors, may presage,
Death and destruction to th'inhabitants.
Over my Zenith hang a blazing star,
That may endure till heaven be dissolv'd,
Fed with the fresh supply of earthly dregs,
Threatning a death and famine to this land,
Flieng Dragons, lightning, fearfull thunderclaps,
Sindge these fair plaines, and make them seeme as black
As is the Island where the Furies maske,
Compast with Lethe, Styx, and Phlegeton,
Because my deare Zenocrate is dead.
And here the picture of Zenocrate,
To shew her beautie, which the world admyr'd,
Sweet picture of divine Zenocrate,
That hanging here, wil draw the Gods from heaven:
And cause the stars fixt in the Southern arke,
Whose lovely faces never any viewed,
That have not past the Centers latitude,
As Pilgrimes traveile to our Hemi-spheare,
Onely to gaze upon Zenocrate.
Thou shalt not beautifie Larissa plaines,
But keep within the circle of mine armes.
At every towne and castle I besiege,
Thou shalt be set upon my royall tent.
And when I meet an armie in the field,
Those looks will shed such influence in my campe,
As if Bellona, Goddesse of the war
Threw naked swords and sulphur teals of fire,
Upon the heads of all our enemies.
And now my Lords, advance your speares againe,
Sorrow no more my sweet Casane now:
Boyes leave to mourne, this towne shall ever mourne,
Being burnt to cynders for your mothers death.
But now my boies, leave off, and list to me,
That meane to teach you rudiments of war:
Ile have you learne to sleepe upon the ground,
March in your armour thorowe watery Fens,
Sustaine the scortching heat and freezing cold,
Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war.
And after this, to scale a castle wal,
Besiege a fort, to undermine a towne,
And make whole cyties caper in the aire.
Then next, the way to fortifie your men,
In champion grounds, what figure serves you best,
For which the quinque-angle fourme is meet:
Because the corners there may fall more flat,
Whereas the Fort may fittest be assailde,
And sharpest where th'assault is desperate.
The ditches must be deepe, the Counterscarps
Narrow and steepe, the wals made high and broad,
The Bulwarks and the rampiers large and strong,
With Cavalieros and thicke counterforts,
And roome within to lodge sixe thousand men.
It must have privy ditches, countermines,
And secret issuings to defend the ditch.
It must have high Argins and covered waies
To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,
And Parapets to hide the Muscatters:
Casemates to place the great Artillery,
And store of ordinance that from every flanke
May scoure the outward curtaines of the Fort,
Dismount the Cannon of the adverse part,
Murther the Foe and save the walles from breach.
When this is learn'd for service on the land,
By plaine and easie demonstration,
Ile teach you how to make the water mount,
That you may dryfoot martch through lakes and pooles,
Deep rivers, havens, creekes, and litle seas,
And make a Fortresse in the raging waves,
Fenc'd with the concave of a monstrous rocke,
Invincible by nature of the place.
When this is done, then are ye souldiers,
And worthy sonnes of Tamburlain the great.
Villain, art thou the sonne of Tamburlaine,
And fear'st to die, or with a Curtle-axe
To hew thy flesh and make a gaping wound?
Hast thou beheld a peale of ordinance strike
A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,
Whose shattered rims, being tost as high as heaven,
Hang in the aire as thicke as sunny motes,
And canst thou Coward stand in feare of death?
Hast thou not scene my horsmen charge the foe,
Shot through the armes, cut overthwart the hands,
Dieng their lances with their streaming blood,
And yet at night carrouse within my tent,
Filling their empty vaines with aiery wine,
That being concocted, turnes to crimson blood,
And wilt thou shun the field for feare of woundes?
View me thy father that hath conquered kings,
And with his hoste martcht round about the earth,
Quite voice of skars, and cleare from any wound,
That by the warres lost not a dram of blood,
And see him lance his flesh to teach you all. He cuts his arme.
A wound is nothing be it nere so deepe,
Blood is the God of Wars rich livery.
Now look I like a souldier, and this wound
As great a grace and majesty to me,
As if a chaire of gold enamiled,
Enchac'd with Diamondes, Saphyres, Rubies
And fairest pearle of welthie India
Were mounted here under a Canapie:
And I sat downe, cloth'd with the massie robe,
That late adorn'd the Affrike Potentate,
Whom I brought bound unto Damascus walles.
Come boyes and with your fingers search my wound,
And in my blood wash all your hands at once,
While I sit smiling to behold the sight.
Now my boyes, what think you of a wound?
Come sirra, give me your arme.
It shall suffice thou darst abide a wound.
My boy, Thou shalt not loose a drop of blood,
Before we meet the armie of the Turke.
But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,
Dreadlesse of blowes, of bloody wounds and death:
And let the burning of Larissa wals,
My speech of war, and this my wound you see,
Teach you my boyes to beare couragious minds,
Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine.
Usumcasane now come let us martch
Towards Techelles and Theridamas,
That we have sent before to fire the townes,
The towers and cities of these hateful! Turks,
And hunt that Coward, faintheart runaway,
With that accursed traitor Almeda,
Til fire and sword have found them at a bay.
Then let us see if coward Calapine
Dare levie armes against our puissance,
That we may tread upon his captive necke,
And treble all his fathers slaveries.

Act: 3 Scene: 5
How now Casane? See a knot of kings,
Sitting as if they were a telling ridles.
Why, so he is Casane, I am here,
But yet Ile save their lives and make them slaves.
Ye petty kings of Turkye I am come,
As Hector did into the Grecian campe,
To overdare the pride of Græcia ,
And set his warlike person to the view
Of fierce Achilles, rivall of his fame.
I doe you honor in the simile ,
For if I should as Hector did Achilles,
(The worthiest knight that ever brandisht sword)
Challenge in combat any of you all,
I see how fearfully ye would refuse,
And fly my glove as from a Scorpion.
Villain, the shepheards issue, at whose byrth
Heaven did affoord a gratious aspect,
And join'd those stars that shall be opposite,
Even till the dissolution of the world,
And never meant to make a Conquerour,
So famous as is mighty Tamburlain:
Shall so torment thee and that Callapine,
That like a roguish runnaway, suborn'd
That villaine there, that slave, that Turkish dog,
To false his service to his Soveraigne,
As ye shal curse the byrth of Tamburlaine.
Sirha, Callapine, Ile hang a clogge about your necke for running away againe, you shall not trouble me thus to come and fetch you.
But as for you (Viceroy) you shal have bits,
And harnest like my horses, draw my coch,
And when ye stay, be lasht with whips of wier:
Ile have you learne to feed on provender,
And in a stable lie upon the planks.
Wel sirs, diet your selves, you knowe I shall have occasion shortly to journey you.
Villaine, traitor, damned fugitive,
Ile make thee wish the earth had swallowed thee:
Seest thou not death within my wrathfull looks?
Goe villaine, cast thee headlong from a rock,
Or rip thy bowels, and rend out thy heart,
T'appease my wrath, or els Ile torture thee,
Searing thy hatefull flesh with burning yrons,
And drops of scalding lead, while all thy joints
Be racks and beat asunder with the wheele,
For if thou livest, not any Element
Shal shrowde thee from the wrath of Tamburlaine.
Go too sirha, take your crown, and make up the halfe dozen. So sirha, now you are a king you must give armes.
No, let him hang a bunch of keies on his standerd, to put him in remembrance he was a Jailor, that when I take him, I may knocke out his braines with them, and lock you in the stable, when you shall come sweating from my chariot.
Sirha, prepare whips, and bring my chariot to my Tent: For as soone as the battaile is done, Ile ride in triumph through the Camp. Enter Theridamas, Techelles, and their traine.
How now ye pety kings, foe, here are Bugges
Wil make the haire stand upright on your heads,
And cast your crownes in slavery at their feet.
Welcome Theridamas and Techelles both,
See ye this rout, and know ye this same king?
Wel, now you see hee is a king, looke to him.
You knowe not sir:
But now my followers and my loving friends,
Fight as you ever did, like Conquerours,
The glorie of this happy day is yours:
My sterne aspect shall make faire Victory,
Hovering betwixt our armies, light on me,
Loden with Lawrell wreathes to crowne us all.
You shall be princes all immediatly:
Come fight ye Turks, or yeeld us victory.