Her name had been in every line he wrote ;
Or, had those wanton poets, for whose birth
Old Rome was proud, but gaz'd a while on her,
Nor Lesbia nor Corinna had been nam'd-
Zenocrate had been the argument
Of every epigram or elegy.

[The Music sounds—Zenocrate dics.
What, is she dead ? Techelles, draw thy sword,
And wound the earth, that it may cleave in twain,
And we descend into th' infernal vaults,
To hale the Fatal Sisters by the hair,
And throw them in the triple moat of hell,
For taking hence my fair Zenocrate.
Casane and Theridamas, to arms !
Raise cavalieros higher than the clouds,
And with the cannon break the frame of heaven;
Batter the shining palace of the sun,
And shiver all the starry firmament,
For ainorous Jove hath snatch'd my love from hence,
Meaning to make her stately queen of heaven.
What god soever holds thee in his arms,
Giving thee nectar and ambrosia,
Behold me here, divine Zenocrate,
Raving, impatient, desperate, and mad,
Breaking iny steelèd lance, with which I burst
The rusty beams of Janus' temple doors
Letting out Death and tyranuising War,
To march with me under this blooily flag !
And, if thou pitiest Tamburlaine the Great,
Come down from heaven, and live with me again

Ther. Ah, good my loril, be patient! she is deail, And all this raging cannot make her live. If words might serve, our voice hath rent the air ; If tears, our eyes have water'd all the earth;

with me,

If grief, our murder'd hearts have strain'd forth blood. Nothing prevails, for she is dead, my lord.

Tamb. For she is dead! thy words do pierce my soul : Ah, sweet Theridamas, say so no more ! Though she be dead, yet let me think she lives, And feed my mind that dies for want of her. Where'er her soul be, thou [To the body] shalt stay Embalm d with cassia, ambergris, and myrrh, Not lapt in lead, but in a sheet of gold, And, till I die, thou shalt not be interr'd. Then in as rich a tomb as Mausolus' We both will rest, and hare one epitaph Writ in as many several languages As I have conquer'd kingdoms with This curséid town will I consume with fire, Because this place bereft me of my love ; The houses, burnt, will look as if they mourn'd ; And here will I set up her stature, And march about it with my mourning camp, Drooping and pining for Zenocrate.

my sword.

TAMBURLAINE'S LESSON TO HIS SONS.

Act III., SCENE 2. Tamb. But now, my boys, leave off, and list to me, That mean to teach you rudiments of war. I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground, March in your armour thorough watery fens, Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold, Hunger and thirst, right ailjuncts of the war ; And, after this, to scale a castle-wall, Besiege a fort, to undermine a town,

And make whole cities caper in the air :
Then next, the way to fortify your men ;
In champion grounds what figure serves you best,
For which the quinque-angle form is meet,
Because the corners there may lall more flat,
Whereas the fort may fittest assail'd,
And sharpest where th' assault is desperate :
The ditches must be deep; the counterscarps
Narrow and steep ; the walls made high and broad ;
The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong,
With cavalieros and thick counterforts,
And room within to lodge six thousand men ;
It must have privy ditches, couutermines,
And secret issuings to defend the ditch ;
It must have high argins and cover'd ways
To keep the bulwark-front from battery,
And parapets to hide the musketeers,
Casemates to place the great artillery,
And store of ordnance, that from every flank
May scour the outward curtains of the fort,
Dismount the cannon of the adverse part,
Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach:
When this is learn’d for service on the land,
By plain and easy demonstration
I'll teach you how to make the water-mount,
That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools
Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little scas,
And make a fortress in the raging waves,
Fenc'd with the concave of a monstrous rock
Invincible by nature of the place.
When this is done, then are ye soldiers,
And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.

Caly. My lord, but this is dangerous to be done ; We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.

Tamb. Villain, art thou the son 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 peal of ordnance strike A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse, Whose shatter'd limbs, being tossed as high as heaven, Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes, And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death ? Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe, Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands, Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood, And yet at right carouse within my tent, Filling their empty veins with airy wine, That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood, And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds ? View me, thy father, that hath conquer'd kings, And, with his host, march'd round about the earth, Quite void of scars and clear from any wound, That by the wars lost not a drop of blood, And see him lance his flesh to teach you all.

[He cuts his arm. A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep ; Blood is the god of war's rich livery. Now look I like a soldier, and this wound As great a grace and majesty to me, As if a chair of gold enanielled, Enchas'd with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, And fairest pearl of wealthy ludia, Were mounted here under a canopy, And I sat down, cloth'd with a massy robe That late adorn'd the Afric potentate, Whom I brought bound unto Damascus' walls. Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound, And in my blood wash all your hands at once,

(B)

Own.

While I sit smiling to behold the sight.
Now, my boys, what thiuk ye of a wound ?
Caly. I know not what I should think of it; mo-

thinks 'tis a pitiful sight.
Cel. 'Tis nothing.–Give me a wound, father.
Amy. And me another, my lord.
Tamb. Come, sirrah, give me your arm.
Cel. Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your

Tamb. It shall suffice thou dar’st abide a wound ; My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of blood Before we meet the army of the Turk ; But then run desperate through the thickest throngs, Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death ; And let the burning of Larissa-walls, My speech of war, and this my wound you see, Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds, Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine.

HE SETS OUT FOR BABYLON.

Act IV., SCENE 4.

Forward, then, ye jades ! Now crouch, ye kings of greatest Asia, And trenible, when ye hear this scourge will come That whips down cities and controlleth crowns, Adding their wealth and treasure to my store. The Euxine sea, north to Natolia ; The Terrene, west ; the Caspian, north, north-east ; And on the south, Sinus Arabicus ; Shall all be loaden with the martial spoils We will convey with us to Persia. Then shall my native city Samarcanda,