Yet let me kiss my lord before I die, And let me die with kissing of my lord.
But, since my life is lengthen'd yet a while, Let me take leave of these my loving sons, And of my lords, whose true nobility Have merited my latest memory.
Sweet sons, farewell! in death resemble me, And in your lives your father's excellence.
Some music, and my fit will cease, my lord.
[They call for music.]
TAMBURLAINE.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 us'd to sit, Wounding the world with wonder and with love, Sadly supplied 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 summon'd Greece to arms, And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos, Had not been nam'd in Homer's Iliads,--
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 dies.]
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 amorous 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 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 heaven, and live with me again!
THERIDAMAS.Ah, good my lord, be patient! she is dead, 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;
If grief, our murder'd hearts have strain'd forth blood:
Nothing prevails, for she is dead, my lord.
TAMBURLAINE.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 with me, 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 have one 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 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.
[The arras is drawn.]
