, then, for these, and such as we ourselves,
For us, for infants, and for all our bloods,
That never nourish'd [259] thought against thy rule,
Pity, O, pity, sacred emperor,
The prostrate service of this wretched town;
And take in sign thereof this gilded wreath,
Whereto each man of rule hath given his hand,
And wish'd, [260] as worthy subjects, happy means
To be investers of thy royal brows
Even with the true Egyptian diadem!

TAMBURLAINE. Virgins, in vain you labour to prevent
That which mine honour swears shall be perform'd.
Behold my sword; what see you at the point?

FIRST VIRGIN. Nothing but fear and fatal steel, my lord.

TAMBURLAINE. Your fearful minds are thick and misty, then,
For there sits Death; there sits imperious [261] Death,
Keeping his circuit by the slicing edge.
But I am pleas'd you shall not see him there;
He now is seated on my horsemen's spears,
And on their points his fleshless body feeds.--
Techelles, straight go charge a few of them
To charge these dames, and shew my servant Death,
Sitting in scarlet on their armed spears.

VIRGINS. O, pity us!

TAMBURLAINE. Away with them, I say, and shew them Death!
[The VIRGINS are taken out by TECHELLES and others.]
I will not spare these proud Egyptians,
Nor change my martial observations
For all the wealth of Gihon's golden waves,
Or for the love of Venus, would she leave
The angry god of arms and lie with me.
They have refus'd the offer of their lives,
And know my customs are as peremptory
As wrathful planets, death, or destiny.

Re-enter TECHELLES.

What, have your horsemen shown the virgins Death?

TECHELLES. They have, my lord, and on Damascus' walls
Have hoisted up their slaughter'd carcasses.

TAMBURLAINE. A sight as baneful to their souls, I think,
As are Thessalian drugs or mithridate:
But go, my lords, put the rest to the sword.

[Exeunt all except TAMBURLAINE.]

Ah, fair Zenocrate!--divine Zenocrate!
Fair is too foul an epithet for thee,--
That in thy passion [262] for thy country's love,
And fear to see thy kingly father's harm,
With hair dishevell'd wip'st thy watery cheeks;
And, like to Flora in her morning's pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the air,
Rain'st on