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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

Sweet Tamburlain, when wilt thou leave these armes

And save thy sacred person free from scathe:

And dangerous chances of the wrathfull war?

My gratious Lord, they have their mothers looks,

But when they list, their conquering fathers hart:

This lovely boy the yongest of the three,

Not long agoe bestrid a Scythian Steed:

Trotting the ring, and tilting at a glove:

Which when he tainted with his slender rod,

He raign'd him straight and made him so curves,

As I cried out for feare he should have falne.

My Lord, such speeches to our princely sonnes,

Dismaies their minces before they come to proove

The wounding troubles angry war affoords.

I fare my Lord, as other Emperesses,

That when this fraile and transitory flesh

Hath sucks the measure of that vitall aire

That feeds the body with his dated health,

Wanes with enforst and necessary change.

Live still my Lord, O let my soveraigne live,

And sooner let the fiery Element

Dissolve, and make your kingdome in the Sky,

Than this base earth should shroud your majesty:

For should I but suspect your death by mine,

The comfort of my future happinesse

And hope to meet your highnesse in the heavens,

Turn'd to dispaire, would break my wretched breast,

And furie would confound my present rest.

But let me die my Love, yet let me die,

With love and patience let your true love die,

Your griefe and furie hurtes my second life:

Yet let me kisse my Lord before I die,

And let me die with kissing of my Lord. [He kisses her.]

But since my life is lengthened yet a while,

Let me take leave of these my loving sonnes,

And of my Lords whose true nobilitie

Have merited my latest memorie:

Sweet sons farewell, in death resemble me,

And in your lives your fathers excellency.

Some musicke, and my fit wil cease my Lord.