University of Virginia Library

Scena Octaua.

Enter Zemes and Alexander Bishop of Rome.
Bishop.
If your intents be vertuous, and desire
Of eminent place quite banisht from your thoughts,
My house shall be your Castie: that I denie
My men and Armes to ayde you in your broyles,
Thinke it kinde vsage: should my Holinesse
Feede your ambition, and make strong your hand
Against your brother 'twere too light a brand
Of flaming hot discention, and to set
The world in a combustion: all would then
Quarrell by my example: No sweet Prince
Romes holy Bishop must not so transgresse.
If you will dwell within my sacred roofe
Settle irregular Passions, and begin
A quiet life, repentance wipes out sin.

Zemes.
My waxen wings are melted, I will soare
Against the sunne, through such thick cloudes no more.
The middle Region shall containe my flight,
Your counsaile swayes my wishes, my late deedes
Were full of sinne: now let my brother know
Zemes repents; (and that's the greatest woe.)

Exit.
Bish.
To mans aspiring thoughts, how sweet is hope
Which makes them (like Camelions) liue on ayre
And hugge their slender plots: till coole dispayre
Doth so benumme his thoughts, that he falls dead
From his sublime height, and his lofty head
Which leueld at the skies, doth drop below
His humble feete, this hath experience taught
In that mans head-long ruine, whose proud thoughts
Aym'd at the Turkish Diademe; but now crosse Fates
Haue forc'd his stubborne Fates to bow.
Enter a Messenger.
What speakes your entrance?

Messen.
Health to Romes Bishop.
And Peace from Baiazet, who commends his loue
With this his Letter, and expects from you
Giues him a letter.
A gracious answere. He reades the Letter.

Bish.
Let Zemes die by an vntimely death,
Else for our loue you shall prouoke our hate.
Hee's not our brother, but our hated foe:
And in his death you shall preuent our woe.
Returne our seruice back: tell Baiazet
What he hath giuen in charge; shall by my hand
Be carefully dispatcht.

Messen.
Good peace attend you.

Exit.
Bish.
Imperious Turke,
Am I not Gods Vize-gerent here on earth,
And dar'st thou send thy letters of command?
Or speake to me in threatning menaces?
It grates my patience to obey this monster,
Yet must I murder Zemes, what doe I know
Whether my fathers soule did trans-migrate
Into his breast or no? be dumbe remorse,
The Turke is great and powerfull, if I winne
His loue by this, t'will proue a happy sinne.