re to appease my wrath.--
Come, bind them both, and one lead in the Turk;
The Turkess let my love's maid lead away,

[They bind them.]

BAJAZETH. Ah, villains, dare you touch my sacred arms?--
O Mahomet! O sleepy Mahomet!

ZABINA. O cursed Mahomet, that mak'st us thus
The slaves to Scythians rude and barbarous!

TAMBURLAINE. Come, bring them in; and for this happy conquest
Triumph, and solemnize a martial [185] feast.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Enter the SOLDAN OF EGYPT, CAPOLIN, LORDS, and a MESSENGER.

SOLDAN. Awake, ye men of Memphis! [186] hear the clang
Of Scythian trumpets; hear the basilisks, [187]
That, roaring, shake Damascus' turrets down!
The rogue of Volga holds Zenocrate,
The Soldan's daughter, for his concubine,
And, with a troop of thieves and vagabonds,
Hath spread his colours to our high disgrace,
While you, faint-hearted base Egyptians,
Lie slumbering on the flowery banks of Nile,
As crocodiles that unaffrighted rest
While thundering cannons rattle on their skins.

MESSENGER. Nay, mighty Soldan, did your greatness see
The frowning looks of fiery Tamburlaine,
That with his terror and imperious eyes
Commands the hearts of his associates,
It might amaze your royal majesty.

SOLDAN. Villain, I tell thee, were that Tamburlaine
As monstrous [188] as Gorgon prince of hell,
The Soldan would not start a foot from him.
But speak, what power hath he?

MESSENGER. Mighty lord,
Three hundred thousand men in armour clad,
Upon their prancing steeds, disdainfully
With wanton paces trampling on the ground;
Five hundred thousand footmen threatening shot,
Shaking their swords, their spears, and iron bills,
Environing their standard round, that stood
As bristle-pointed as a thorny wood;
Their warlike engines and munition
Exceed the forces of their martial men.

SOLDAN. Nay, could their numbers countervail the stars,
Or ever-drizzling [189] drops of April showers,
Or wither'd leaves that autumn shaketh down,
Yet would the Soldan by his conquering power
So scatter and consume them in his rage,
That not a man should [190] live to rue their fall.

CAPOLIN. So might your highness, had you time to sort
Your fighting men, and rais