University of Virginia Library

Scæna vltima.

The Arras is drawen and Zenocrate lies in her bed of state, Tamburlaine sitting by her: three Phisitians about her bed, tempering potions. Theridamas, Techelles, Vsumeasane, and the three sonnes.
Tamburlaine,
Blacke is the beauty of the brightest day,
The golden balle of heauens eternal fire,
That danc'd with glorie on the siluer waues:
Now wants the fewell that enflamde his beames
And all with faintnesse and for foule disgrace,
He bindes his temples with a frowning cloude,
Ready to darken earth with endlesse night:
Zenocrate that gaue him light and life,
Whose eies shot fire from their Iuory bowers,
And tempered euery soule with liuely heat,
Now by the malice of the angry Skies,
Whose iealousie admits no second Mate,
Drawes in the comfort of her latest breath
All dasled with the hellish mists of death.
Now walk the angels on the walles of heauen,
As Centinels to warne th'immortall soules,
To entertaine deuine Zenocrate.
Apollo, Cynthia, and the ceaslesse lamps
That gently look'd vpon this loathsome earth,
Shine downwards now no more, but deck the heauens
To entertaine diuine Zenocrate.
The christall springs whose taste illuminates
Refined eies with an eternall sight,
Like tried siluer runs through Paradice
To entertaine diuine zenocrate.
The Cherubins and holy Seraphins
That sing and play before the king of kings,
Use all their voices and their instruments
To entertaine diuine Zenocrate.
And in this sweet and currious harmony,
The God that tunes this musicke to our soules:
Holds out his hand in highest maiesty
To entertaine diuine Zenocrate.
Then let some holy trance conuay my thoughts,
Up to the pallace of th'imperiall heauen:
That this my life may be as short to me
As are the daies of sweet Zenocrate:
Phisitions, wil no phisicke do her good?

Phis.
My Lord, your Maiesty shall soone perceiue:
And if she passe this fit, the worst is past.

tam.
Tell me, how fares my faire Zenocrate?

zen.
I fare my Lord, as other Emperesses,
That when this fraile and transitory flesh
Hath suckt the measure of that vitall aire
That feeds the body with his dated health,
Wanes with enforst and necessary change.

tam.
May neuer such a change transfourme my loue
In whose sweet being I repose my life,
Whose heauenly presence beautified with health,
Giues light to Phœbus and the fixed stars,
Whose absence make the sun and Moone as darke
As when opposde in one Diamiter:
Their Spheares are mounted on the serpents head,
Or els discended to his winding traine:
Liue still my Loue and so conserue my life,
Or dieng, be the anchor of my death.

zen.
Liue still my Lord, O let my soueraigne liue,
And sooner let the fiery Element
Dissolue, and make your kingdome in the Sky,
Than this base earth should shroud your maiesty:
For should I but suspect your death by mine,
The comfort of my future happinesse
And hope to meet your highnesse in the heauens,
Turn'd to dispaire, would break my wretched breast
And furie would confound my present rest.
But let me die my Loue, yet let me die,
With loue and patience let your true loue die:
Your griefe and furie hurtes my second life,
Yet let me kisse my Lord before I die,
And let me die with kissing of my Lord.
But since my life is lengthened yet a while,
Let me take leaue of these my louing sonnes,
And of my Lords whose true nobilitie
Haue merited my latest memorie:
Sweet sons farewell, in death resemble me,
And in your liues your fathers excellency.
Some musicke, and my fit wil cease my Lord.

They call musicke.
tam.
Proud furie and intollorable fit,
That dares torment the body of my Loue,
And scourge the Scourge of the immortall God:
Now are those Spheares where Cupid vsde to sit,
Wounding the world with woonder and with loue,
Sadly supplied with pale and ghastly death:
Whose darts do pierce the Center of my soule,
Her sacred beauty hath enchaunted heauen,
And had she liu'd before the siege of Troy,
Hellen, whose beauty sommond Greece to armes,
And drew a thousand ships to Tenedos,
Had not bene nam'd in Homers Iliads:
Her name had bene in euery line he wrote:
Or had those wanton Poets, for whose byrth
Olde Rome was proud, but gasde a while on her,
Nor Lesbia, nor Corrinna had bene nam'd,
zenocrate had bene the argument
Of euery Epigram or Eligie.

The musicke sounds, and she dies.
tam.
What, is she dead? Techelles, draw thy sword,
And wound the earth, that it may cleaue in twaine,
And we discend into th'infernall vaults,
To haile the fatall Sisters by the haire,
And throw them in the triple mote of Hell,
For taking hence my faire zenocrate.
Casane and theridamas to armes,
Raise Caualieros higher than the cloudes:
And with the cannon breake the frame of heauen,
Batter the shining pallace of the Sun,
And shiuer all the starry firmament:
For amorous Ioue hath snatcht my loue from hence,
Meaning to make her stately Queene of heauen,
What God so euer holds thee in his armes,
Giuing thee Nectar and Ambrosia,
Behold me here diuine zenocrate,
Rauing, impatient, desperate and mad,
Breaking my steeled lance, with which I burst
The rusty beames of Ianus Temple doores,
Letting out death and tyrannising war:
To martch with me vnder this bloody flag,
And if thou pitiest Tamburlain the great,
Come downe from heauen and liue with me againe.

ther.
Ah good my Lord be patient, she is dead,
And all this raging cannot make her liue,
If woords might serue, our voice hath rent the aire,
If teares, our eies haue watered all the earth:
If griefe, our murthered harts haue straind forth blood
Nothing preuailes, for she is dead my Lord.

tam.
For she is dead? thy words doo pierce my soule
Ah sweet theridamas, say so no more,
Though she be dead, yet let me think she liues,
And feed my mind that dies for want of her:
Where ere her soule be, thou shalt stay with me
Embalm'd with Cassia, Amber Greece and Myrre,
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 tombe as Mausolus,
We both will rest and haue one Epitaph
Writ in as many seuerall languages,
As I haue conquered kingdomes with my sword,
This cursed towne will I consume with fire,
Because this place bereft me of my Loue:
The houses burnt, wil looke as if they mourn'd
And here will I set vp her stature,
And martch about it with my mourning campe,
Drooping and pining for zenocrate.

The Arras is drawen.