CALLAPINE. As I am Callapine the emperor, And by the hand of Mahomet I swear, Thou shalt be crown'd a king, and be my mate! ALMEDA. Then here I swear, as I am Almeda, Your keeper under Tamburlaine the Great, (For that's the style and title I have yet,) Although he sent a thousand armed men To intercept this haughty enterprize, Yet would I venture to conduct your grace, And die before I brought you back again! CALLAPINE. Thanks, gentle Almeda: then let us haste, Lest time be past, and lingering let [36] us both. ALMEDA. When you will, my lord: I am ready. CALLAPINE. Even straight:--and farewell, cursed Tamburlaine! Now go I to revenge my father's death. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Enter TAMBURLAINE, ZENOCRATE, and their three sons, CALYPHAS, AMYRAS, and CELEBINUS, with drums and trumpets. TAMBURLAINE. Now, bright Zenocrate, the world's fair eye, Whose beams illuminate the lamps of heaven, Whose cheerful looks do clear the cloudy air, And clothe it in a crystal livery, Now rest thee here on fair Larissa-plains, Where Egypt and the Turkish empire part Between thy sons, that shall be emperors, And every one commander of a world. ZENOCRATE. Sweet Tamburlaine, when wilt thou leave these arms, And save thy sacred person free from scathe, And dangerous chances of the wrathful war? TAMBURLAINE. When heaven shall cease to move on both the poles, And when the ground, whereon my soldiers march, Shall rise aloft and touch the horned moon; And not before, my sweet Zenocrate. Sit up, and rest thee like a lovely queen. So; now she sits in pomp and majesty, When these, my sons, more precious in mine eyes Than all the wealthy kingdoms I subdu'd, Plac'd by her side, look on their mother's face. But yet methinks their looks are amorous, Not martial as the sons of Tamburlaine: Water and air, being symboliz'd in one, Argue their want of courage and of wit; Their hair as white as milk, and soft as down, (Which should be like the quills of porcupines, As black as jet, and hard as iron or steel,) Bewrays they are too dainty for the wars; Their fingers made to quaver on a lute, Their arms to hang about a lady's neck, Their legs to dance and caper in the air, Would make me think them bastards, not my sons, But that I know they issu'd from thy womb, That never look'd on man but Tamburlaine.