BAJAZETH. O life, more loathsome to my vexed thoughts Than noisome parbreak of the Stygian snakes, Which fills the nooks of hell with standing air, Infecting all the ghosts with cureless griefs! O dreary engines of my loathed sight, That see my crown, my honour, and my name Thrust under yoke and thraldom of a thief, Why feed ye still on day's accursed beams, And sink not quite into my tortur'd soul? You see my wife, my queen, and emperess, Brought up and propped by the hand of Fame, Queen of fifteen contributory queens, Now thrown to rooms of black abjection, Smeared with blots of basest drudgery, And villainess to shame, disdain, and misery. Accursed Bajazeth, whose words of ruth, That would with pity cheer Zabina's heart, And make our souls resolve in ceaseless tears, Sharp hunger bites upon and gripes the root From whence the issues of my thoughts do break! O poor Zabina! O my queen, my queen! Fetch me some water for my burning breast, To cool and comfort me with longer date, That, in the shorten'd sequel of my life, I may pour forth my soul into thine arms With words of love, whose moaning intercourse Hath hitherto been stay'd with wrath and hate Of our expressless bann'd inflictions.
ZABINA. Sweet Bajazeth, I will prolong thy life As long as any blood or spark of breath Can quench or cool the torments of my grief. [Exit.]
BAJAZETH. Now, Bajazeth, abridge thy baneful days, And beat the brains out of thy conquer'd head, Since other means are all forbidden me, That may be ministers of my decay. O highest lamp of ever-living Jove, Accursed day, infected with my griefs, Hide now thy stained face in endless night, And shut the windows of the lightsome heavens! Let ugly Darkness with her rusty coach, Engirt with tempests, wrapt in pitchy clouds, Smother the earth with never-fading mists, And let her horses from their nostrils breathe Rebellious winds and dreadful thunder-claps, That in this terror Tamburlaine may live, And my pin'd soul, resolv'd in liquid air, May still excruciate his tormented thoughts! Then let the stony dart of senseless cold Pierce through the centre of my wither'd heart, And make a passage for my loathed life! [He brains himself against the cage.]
Re-enter ZABINA.
ZABINA. What do mine eyes behold? my husband dead! His skull all riven in twain! his brains dash'd out, The brains of Bajazeth, my lord and sovereign! O Bajazeth, my husband and my lord! O Bajazeth! O Turk! O emperor! Give him his liquor? not I. Bring milk and fire, and my blood I bring him again.--Tear me in pieces--give me the sword with a ball of wild-fire upon it.--Down with him! down with him!--Go to my child; away, away, away! ah, save that infant! save him, save him!--I, even I, speak to her.--The sun was down--streamers white, red, black--Here, here, here!--Fling the meat in his face--Tamburlaine, Tamburlaine!--Let the soldiers be buried.--Hell, death, Tamburlaine, hell!--Make ready my coach, my chair, my jewels.--I come, I come, I come! [She runs against the cage, and brains herself.]
Enter ZENOCRATE with ANIPPE.
ZENOCRATE. Wretched Zenocrate! that liv'st to see Damascus' walls dy'd with Egyptians' blood, Thy father's subjects and thy countrymen; The streets strow'd with dissever'd joints of men, And wounded bodies gasping yet for life; But most accurs'd, to see the sun- bright troop Of heavenly virgins and unspotted maids (Whose looks might make the angry god of arms To break his sword and mildly treat of love) On horsemen's lances to be hoisted up, And guiltlessly endure a cruel death; For every fell and stout Tartarian steed, That stamp'd on others with their thundering hoofs, When all their riders charg'd their quivering spears, Began to check the ground and rein themselves, Gazing upon the beautyof their looks. Ah, Tamburlaine, wert thou the cause of this, That term'st Zenocrate thy dearest love? Whose lives were dearer to Zenocrate Than her own life, or aught save thine own love. But see, another bloody spectacle! Ah, wretched eyes, the enemies of my heart, How are ye glutted with these grievous objects, And tell my soul more tales of bleeding ruth!-- See, see, Anippe, if they breathe or no.
ANIPPE. No breath, nor sense, nor motion, in them both: Ah, madam, this their slavery hath enforc'd, And ruthless cruelty of Tamburlaine!
ZENOCRATE. Earth, cast up fountains from thy entrails, And wet thy cheeks for their untimely deaths; Shake with their weight in sign of fear and grief! Blush, heaven, that gave them honour at their birth, And let them die a death so barbarous! Those that are proud of fickle empery And place their chiefest good in earthly pomp, Behold the Turk and his great emperess! Ah, Tamburlaine my love, sweet Tamburlaine, That fight'st for sceptres and for slippery crowns, Behold the Turk and his great emperess! Thou that, in conduct of thy happy stars, Sleep'st every night with conquest on thy brows, And yet wouldst shun the wavering turns of war, In fear and feeling of the like distress Behold the Turk and his great emperess! Ah, mighty Jove and holy Mahomet, Pardon my love! O, pardon his contempt Of earthly fortune and respect of pity; And let not conquest, ruthlessly pursu'd, Be equally against his life incens'd In this great Turk and hapless emperess! And pardon me that was not mov'd with ruth To see them live so long in misery!-- Ah, what may chance to thee, Zenocrate?
ANIPPE. Madam, content yourself, and be resolv'd Your love hath Fortune so at his command, That she shall stay, and turn her wheel no more, As long as life maintains his mighty arm That fights for honour to adorn your head.
Enter PHILEMUS.
ZENOCRATE. What other heavy news now brings Philemus?
PHILEMUS. Madam, your father, and the Arabian king, The first affecter of your excellence, Come now, as Turnus 'gainst Aeneas did, Armed with lance into the Aegyptian fields, Ready for battle 'gainst my lord the king.
