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Live still, my love, and so conserve my life,
Or, dying, be the author of my death!
Zsso. Live still, my lord! Oh, let my sovereign live!
And sooner let the fiery element
Dissolve and make your kingdom 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 happicess,
And hope to meet your highness in the heavens,
Tured to despair, would break my wretched breast,
And fury would confound my present rest.
But let me die, my love; yes, let me die;
With love and patience let your true love die!
Your grief and fury hurt my second life.-
Yet let me kiss my lord before I die,
And let me die with kissing of my lord.
Bat since my life is lengthen'd yet awhile,
Let me take leave of these my loving sons,
Aad of my lord, whose true nobility
Hare merited my latest memory.
Sweet sons, farewell! In death reseinble me,
Aad in your lives your father's excellency.
Some music, and my fit will cease, my lord.
[They call for music.
TAMB. Proud fury, and intolerable fit,
That dares torment the body of my love,
And scourge the scourge of the immortal God:
Now are those spheres, where Cupid usd to sit,
Wounding the world with wonder and with love,
Sadly supply'd with pale and ghastly death,
Whose darts do pierce the centre of my soul.
Her sacred beauty hath enchanted heaven;
And had she liv'd before the siege of Troy,
Helen, (whose beauty summond Greece to arms,
And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos)
Had not been nam'd in Homer's Miades;
Her name had been in ev'ry line he wrote.
Or had those wanton poets, for whose birth
Old Rome was proud, but gaz'd awhile on her,
Nor Lesbia nor Corinna had been nam’d;
Zenocrate had been the argument
Of ev'ry epigram or elegy.
[The music sounds.- Zenocrate dies.
What! is she dead? Techelles, draw thy sword
And wound the earth, that it may cleave in twain,
And we desend 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 heav'n ;
Batter the shining palace of the sun,
And shiver all the starry firmament,
For am'rous Jove hath snatch'd my love from
Meaning to make her stately queen of heaven.
What God soever holds thee in his arms,
Giving thee nectar and ambrosia,
• Cavalieros---cavalier, French; a platform for great guns.
Bebold me here, divine Zenocrate,
Raving, impatient, desperate, and mad,
Breaking my steeled lance, with which I burst
The rusty beams of Janus' temple-doors,
Letting out death and tyrannizing war,
To march with me under this bloody flag!
And if thou pitiest Tamburlaine the Great,
Come down from heav'n, and live with me again.
THER. Ah, good my lord, be patient; she is dead,
And all this raging can not make her live.
If sords might serve, our voice hath rent the air;
If tears, our eyes have water'd all the earth ;
If grief, our murder'd hearts have strain’d forth blood;
Sching prevails, for she is dead, my lord.
TAYB. For she is dead! Thy words do pierce my
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 all I die thou shalt not be interr’d.
Thea in as rich a tomb as Mausolus
We both will rest and have our epitaph
Writ in as many several languages
As I have conquer'd kingdoms with my sword.
This cursed town will I consume with fire,
Because this place bereav'd me of my love:
The houses, burnt, will look as if they mourn'd;
And here will I set up her statue,
And march about it with my mourning camp
Drooping and pining for Zenocrate. [The Scene closes.
Enter the Kings of TREBIZOND and SYRIA, one
bearing a sword, and another a sceptre ; nert NATOLIA and JeRUSALEM, with the imperial Crown ; after CALLAPINE, and after him other Lords. ORCANES and JERUSALEM crown him, and the others give him the sceptre.
Orc. Callapinus Cyricelibes, otherwise Cybelius, son and successive heir to the late mighty emperor, Bajazet, by the aid of God and his friend Mahomet, emperor of Natolia, Jerusalem, Trebizond, Syria, Amasia, Thracia, Ilyria, Carmonia, and all the hundred and thirty kingdoms late contributory to his mighty father. Long live Callapinus, emperor of Turkey.
CALL. Thrice worthy kings of Natolia, and the rest, I will requite your royal gratitudes With all the benefits my empire yields; And were the sinews of th' imperial seat So knit and strengthen'd as when Bajazet My royal lord and father fill’d the throne,
Whose cursed fate hath so dismember'd it,
Then should you see this chief of Scythia,
This proud, usurping king of Persia, -
Do us such honour and supremacy,
Bearing the vengeance of our father's wrongs,
As all the world should blot our dignities
Out of the book of base-born infamies.
And now I doubt not but your royal cares
Have so provided for this cursed foe,
That, since the heir of mighty Bajazet,
(An emperor so honour'd for his virtues,)
Revives the spirits of true Turkish hearts,
In grievous mem'ry of his father's shame,
We shall not need to nourish any doubt,
But that proud fortune, who hath follow'd long
The martial sword of mighty Tamburlaine,
Will now retain her old inconstancy,
And raise our honours to as high a pitch,
In this our strong and fortunate encounter;
For so hath heaven provided my escape,
From all the cruelty my soul sustain'd,
By this my friendly keeper's happy means,
That Jove, surcharg'd with pity of our wrongs,
Will pour it down in showers on our heads,
Scourging the pride of Tamburlaine.
Orc. I have a hundred thousand men in arms:
Some, that in conquest of the perjur’d Christian,
Being a handful to a mighty host,
Think them in number yet sufficient
To drink the river Nile or Euphrates,