TAMBURLAINE. To let them see, divine Zenocrate, I glory in the curses of my foes, Having the power from the empyreal heaven To turn them all upon their proper heads. TECHELLES. I pray you, give them leave, madam; this speech is a goodly refreshing for them. [225] THERIDAMAS. But, if his highness would let them be fed, it would do them more good. TAMBURLAINE. Sirrah, why fall you not to? are you so daintily brought up, you cannot eat your own flesh? BAJAZETH. First, legions of devils shall tear thee in pieces. USUMCASANE. Villain, knowest thou to whom thou speakest? TAMBURLAINE. O, let him alone.--Here; [226] eat, sir; take it from [227] my sword's point, or I'll thrust it to thy heart. [BAJAZETH takes the food, and stamps upon it.] THERIDAMAS. He stamps it under his feet, my lord. TAMBURLAINE. Take it up, villain, and eat it; or I will make thee slice [228] the brawns of thy arms into carbonadoes and eat them. USUMCASANE. Nay, 'twere better he killed his wife, and then she shall be sure not to be starved, and he be provided for a month's victual beforehand. TAMBURLAINE. Here is my dagger: despatch her while she is fat; for, if she live but a while longer, she will fall [229] into a consumption with fretting, and then she will not be worth the eating. THERIDAMAS. Dost thou think that Mahomet will suffer this? TECHELLES. 'Tis like he will, when he cannot let [230] it. TAMBURLAINE. Go to; fall to your meat. What, not a bit!--Belike he hath not been watered to-day: give him some drink. [They give BAJAZETH water to drink, and he flings it on the ground.] Fast, and welcome, sir, while [231] hunger make you eat.--How now, Zenocrate! doth not the Turk and his wife make a goodly show at a banquet? ZENOCRATE. Yes, my lord. THERIDAMAS. Methinks 'tis a great deal better than a consort [232] of music. TAMBURLAINE. Yet music would do well to cheer up Zenocrate. Pray thee, tell why art thou so sad? if thou wilt have a song, the Turk shall strain his voice: but why is it? ZENOCRATE. My lord, to see my father's town besieg'd, The country wasted where myself was born, How can it but afflict my very soul? If any love remain in you, my lord, Or if my love unto your majesty May merit favour at your highness' hands, Then raise your siege from fair Damascus' walls, And with my father take a friendly truce.