BAJAZETH. Ah, fair Zabina! we have lost the field; And never had the Turkish emperor So great a foil by any foreign foe. Now will the Christian miscreants be glad, Ringing with joy their superstitious bells, And making bonfires for my overthrow: But, ere I die, those foul idolaters Shall make me bonfires with their filthy bones; For, though the glory of this day be lost, Afric and Greece have garrisons enough To make me sovereign of the earth again. TAMBURLAINE. Those walled garrisons will I subdue, And write myself great lord of Africa: So from the East unto the furthest West Shall Tamburlaine extend his puissant arm. The galleys and those pilling [183] brigandines, That yearly sail to the Venetian gulf, And hover in the Straits for Christians' wreck, Shall lie at anchor in the Isle Asant, Until the Persian fleet and men-of-war, Sailing along the oriental sea, Have fetch'd about the Indian continent, Even from Persepolis to Mexico, And thence unto the Straits of Jubalter; Where they shall meet and join their force in one. Keeping in awe the Bay of Portingale, And all the ocean by the British [184] shore; And by this means I'll win the world at last. BAJAZETH. Yet set a ransom on me, Tamburlaine. TAMBURLAINE. What, think'st thou Tamburlaine esteems thy gold? I'll make the kings of India, ere I die, Offer their mines, to sue for peace, to me, And dig for treasure 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.