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[I had the same difficulty (or rather much more) in culling a few sane lines from this as from the preceding Play. The lunes of Tamburlaine are perfect "midsummer madness." Nebuchadnazar's are mere modest pretensions compared with the thundering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in (in the Second Part) drawn by conquered kings, and reproaches these pampered jades of Asia that they can draw but twenty miles a day. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was anything more than a pleasant burlesque of Mine Ancient's. But I assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a Play which their Ancestors took to be serious. I have subjoined the genuine speech for their amusement. Enter Tamburlaine, drawn in his chariot by Trebizon and Soria, with bits in their mouths, reins in his left hand, in his right hand a whip, with which he Scourgeth them.

Tamb. Holla ye pamper'd jades of Asia :
What can ye draw but twenty miles a day,
And have so proud a chariot at your heels,
And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine?
But from Asphaltis, where I conquered you,
To Byron here, where thus I honour you?
The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven,
And blow the morning from their nostrils,
Making their fiery gate above the glades,
Are not so honour'd in their governor

As you ye slaves in mighty Tamburlaine.

The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tamed,
That King Egeus fed with human flesh,

And made so wanton that they knew their strengths,
Were not subdued with valour more divine,
Than you by this unconquer'd arm of mine.

To make you fierce and fit my appetite,
You shall be fed with flesh as raw as blood,
And drink in pails the strongest muscadel :
If you can live with it, then live and draw
My chariot swifter than the racking clouds:
If not, then die like beasts, and fit for nought
But perches for the black and fatal ravens.
Thus am I right the scourge of highest Jove. &c.]

EDWARD THE SECOND. A TRAGEDY, BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

Gaveston shews what pleasures those are which the King chiefly delights in.

Gav. I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits,
Musicians, that with touching of a string

May draw the pliant King which way I please.
Music and poetry are his delight;

Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night,
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
Like Sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad;
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antick hay.
Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape,
With hair that gilds the water as it glides,
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,
And in his sportful hands an olive tree
To hide those parts which men delight to see,
Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,
One like Acteon, peeping thro' the grove,
Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd,
And running in the likeness of an hart,

By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die;
Such things as these best please his majesty.

The younger Mortimer repines at the insolence of Gaveston.

Mort. sen. Nephew, I must to Scotland, thou stay'st

here.

Leave now to oppose thyself against the King.

Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm,
And seeing his mind so doats on Gaveston,
Let him without controulment have his will.
The mightiest kings have had their minions:
Great Alexander lov'd Hephestion;
The conquering Hercules for his Hilas wept,
And for Patroclus stern Achilles droop'd.
And not kings only, but the wisest men ;
The Roman Tully lov'd Octavius;
Grave Socrates wild Alcibiades.

Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible,
And promiseth as much as we can wish,
Freely enjoy that vain light-headed earl,

For riper years will wean him from such toys.

Mort. jun. Uncle, his wanton humour grieves not me;

But this I scorn, that one so basely born,

Should by his sovereign's favour grow so pert,
And riot with the treasure of the realm.
While soldiers mutiny for want of pay,
He wears a lord's revenue on his back,
And Midas-like, he jets it in the court,
With base outlandish cullions at his heels,
Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show,
As if that Proteus, god of shapes, appear'd.
I have not seen a dapper jack so brisk;
He wears a short Italian hooded cloak,
Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap
A jewel of more value than the crown.
While others walk below, the king and he,
From out a window, laugh at such as we,
And flout our train, and jest at our attire.
Uncle, 'tis this that makes me impatient.

The Barons reproach the King with the calamities which the realm endures from the ascendancy of his wicked favourite, Gaveston.

KING EDWARD, LANCASTER, WARWICK.

TIMERS, and other Lords.

The MOR

Mort. jun. Nay, stay, my lord, I come to bring you

news.

Mine uncle is taken prisoner by the Scots.

Edw. Then ransom him.

Lan. 'Twas in your wars, you should ransom him. Mort. jun. And you shall ransom him, or elseKent. What, Mortimer, you will not threaten him? Edw. Quiet yourself, you shall have the broad seal, To gather for him throughout the realm.

Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this.
Mort. jun. My Lord, the family of the Mortimers
Are not so poor, but would they sell their land,
Could levy men enough to anger you.

We never beg, but use such prayers as these.
Edw. Shall I still be haunted thus ?

Mort. jun. Nay, now you are here alone, I'll speak my

mind.

Lan. And so will I, and then, my lord, farewell.
Mort. The idle triumphs, masks, lascivious shows,
And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaveston,

Have drawn thy treasure dry, and made thee weak ;
The murmuring commons, overstretched, break.

Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd;
Thy garrisons are beaten out of France,
And lame and poor lie groaning at the gates.
The wild Oneyle, with swarms of Irish kerns,
Live uncontroul'd within the English pale.

Unto the walls of York the Scots make road,
And unresisted draw away rich spoils.

Mort. jun. The haughty Dane commands the narrow

seas,

While in the harbour ride thy ships unrigg'd.

Lan. What foreign prince sends thee embassadors ? Mort. Who loves thee, but a sort of flatterers? Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valoys, Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn.

Mort. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those,
That make a king seem glorious to the world:
I mean the peers, whom thou shouldst dearly love.
Libels are cast against thee in the street:
Ballads and rhimes made of thy overthrow.

Lan. The Northern brothers seeing their houses burnt,
Their wives and children slain, run up and down
Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston.

Mort. When wert thou in the field with banner spread? But once and then thy soldiers march'd like players, With garish robes, not armor; and thyself, Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, Where women's favours hung like labels down. Lan. And thereof came it, that the fleering Scots, To England's high disgrace, have made this jig: Maids of England, sore may you moorn,

For your

lemmons you have lost at Bennock's born,

With a heave and a ho.

What weened the king of England,

So soon to have woon Scotland,

With a rombelow?

Mort. Wigmore* shall fly to set my uncle free.

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