And crown me emperor of Africa. ZAB. No, Tamburlaine: though now thou got the best, Thou shalt not yet be lord of Africa. THER. Give her the crown, Turkess; you were best. [He takes it from her, and gives it to Zenocrate. ZAB. Injurious villains!—thieves !—runagates! How dare you thus abuse my majesty? THER. [To Zenocrate.] Here, madam, you are empress; she is none. TAMB. Not now, Theridamas; her time is past. The pillars that have bolster'd up those terms, Are fall'n in clusters at my conq'ring feet. ZAB. Though he be pris'ner, he may be ransom'd. TAMB. Not all the world shall ransom Bajazet. BAJ. Ah, fair Zabina, we have lost the field; And never had the Turkish emperor So great a foil by any foreign foe. Now will the Christian miscreants be glad, Shall make me bonfires with their filthy bones. So from the East unto the furthest West And hover in the Streights for Christian wreck, Until the Persian fleet and men of war, Sailing along the oriental sea, Have fetch'd about the Indian continent, Even from Persepolis to Mexico, And thence unto the straights of Gibraltar; And all the ocean by the British shore; And by this means I'll win the world at last. BAJ. Yet set a ransom on me, Tamburlaine. TAMB. What, think'st thou, Tamburlaine esteems thy gold? I'll make the kings of India, ere I die, Offer their mines (to sue for peace) to me, And dig for treasure to appease my wrath. Come, bind them both, and one lead in the Turk ; The Turkess, let my love's maid lead away. [They bind them. BAJ. Ah, villains!-dare ye touch my sacred arms? XO Mahomet !—O sleepy Mahomet! ZAB. O cursed Mahomet, that makes us thus TAMB. Come, bring them in; and for this happy conquest, Triumph and solemnize a martial feast. [Exeunt. ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE I. Enter the SOLDAN of EGYPT, CAPOLINE, Lords, and a MESSENGER. SOLD. Awake, ye men of Memphis!-hear the clang Of Scythian trumpets!-hear the basilisks, That, roaring, shake Damascus' turrets down! SOLD. Villain, I tell thee, were that Tamburlaine As monstrous as [the] gorgon prince of hell, The soldan would not start a foot from him. But speak, what pow'r hath he? MESS. Mighty lord, Three hundred thousand men in armour clad, With wanton paces trampling on the ground: Their warlike engines and munition SOLD. Nay, could their numbers countervail the stars, Or ever-drizzling drops of April show'rs, Or wither'd leaves that Autumn shaketh down, That not a man should live to rue their fall. CAPO. So might your highness, had you time to sort Your fighting men, and raise your royal host; Advantage takes of your unreadiness. SOLD. Let him take all th' advantages he can, Yet in revenge of fair Zenocrate, This arm should send him down to Erebus, To shroud his shame in darkness of the night. The first day when he pitcheth down his tents, But when Aurora mounts the second time As red as scarlet is his furniture; Then must his kindled wrath be quench'd with blood, His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, He razeth all his foes with fire and sword. [Exeunt. |