Tamburlaine the Great: Part 1 (1587/8)

Christopher Marlowe
First Virgin
Most happy king and emperor of the earth,
Image of honour and nobility,
For whom the powers divine have made the world,
And on whose throne the holy Graces sit;
In whose sweet person is compris'd the sum
Of Nature's skill and heavenly majesty;
Pity our plights! O, pity poor Damascus!
Pity old age, within whose silver hairs
Honour and reverence evermore have reign'd!
Pity the marriage-bed, where many a lord,
In prime and glory of his loving joy,
Embraceth now with tears of ruth and blood
The jealous body of his fearful wife,
Whose cheeks and hearts, so punish'd with conceit,
To think thy puissant never-stayed arm
Will part their bodies, and prevent their souls
From heavens of comfort yet their age might bear,
Now wax all pale and wither'd to the death,
As well for grief our ruthless governor
Hath thus refus'd the mercy of thy hand,
(Whose sceptre angels kiss and Furies dread,)
As for their liberties, their loves, or lives!
O, then, for these, and such as we ourselves,
For us, for infants, and for all our bloods,
That never nourish'd 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, as worthy subjects, happy means
To be investers of thy royal brows
Even with the true Egyptian diadem!
Zenocrate
Wretched Zenocrate! that liv'st to see
Damascus' walls dy'd with Egyptians' blood,
Thy father's subjects and thy countrymen;
The streets strow'd with dissever'd joints of men,
And wounded bodies gasping yet for life;
But most accurs'd, to see the sun-bright troop
Of heavenly virgins and unspotted maids
(Whose looks might make the angry god of arms
To break his sword and mildly treat of love)
On horsemen's lances to be hoisted up,
And guiltlessly endure a cruel death;
For every fell and stout Tartarian steed,
That stamp'd on others with their thundering hoofs,

When all their riders charg'd their quivering spears,

Began to check the ground and rein themselves,
Gazing upon the beauty of their looks.
Ah, Tamburlaine, wert thou the cause of this,
That term'st Zenocrate thy dearest love?
Whose lives were dearer to Zenocrate
Than her own life, or aught save thine own love.
But see, another bloody spectacle!
Ah, wretched eyes, the enemies of my heart,
How are ye glutted with these grievous objects,
And tell my soul more tales of bleeding ruth!-See, see, Anippe, if they breathe or no.
Zencorate
Earth, cast up fountains from thy entrails,
And wet thy cheeks for their untimely deaths;
Shake with their weight in sign of fear and grief!
Blush, heaven, that gave them honour at their birth,
And let them die a death so barbarous!
Those that are proud of fickle empery
And place their chiefest good in earthly pomp,
Behold the Turk and his great emperess!
Ah, Tamburlaine my love, sweet Tamburlaine,
That fight'st for sceptres and for slippery crowns,
Behold the Turk and his great emperess!
Thou that, in conduct of thy happy stars,
Sleep'st every night with conquest on thy brows,
And yet wouldst shun the wavering turns of war,
In fear and feeling of the like distress
Behold the Turk and his great emperess!
Ah, mighty Jove and holy Mahomet,
Pardon my love! O, pardon his contempt
Of earthly fortune and respect of pity;
And let not conquest, ruthlessly pursu'd,
Be equally against his life incens'd
In this great Turk and hapless emperess!
And pardon me that was not mov'd with ruth
To see them live so long in misery!-Ah, what may chance to thee, Zenocrate?
Zenocrate
Now shame and duty, love and fear present
A thousand sorrows to my martyr'd soul.
Whom should I wish the fatal victory,
When my poor pleasures are divided thus,
And rack'd by duty from my cursed heart?
My father and my first-betrothed love
Must fight against my life and present love;
Wherein the change I use condemns my faith,

And makes my deeds infamous through the world:

But, as the gods, to end the Trojans' toil,
Prevented Turnus of Lavinia,
And fatally enrich'd Aeneas' love,
So, for a final issue to my griefs,
To pacify my country and my love,
Must Tamburlaine by their resistless powers,
With virtue of a gentle victory,
Conclude a league of honour to my hope;
Then, as the powers divine have pre-ordain'd,
With happy safety of my father's life
Send like defence of fair Arabia

Arden of Feversham (14th century)

Anon
Alice
Ere noon he means to take horse and away !
Sweet news is this. O that some airy spirit
Would in the shape and likeness of a horse
Gallop with Arden 'cross the Ocean,
And throw him from his back into the waves !
Sweet Mosbie is the man that hath my heart :
And he usurps it, having nought but this.
That I am tied to him by marriage.
Love is a God, and marriage is but words ;
And therefore Mosbie's title is the best.
Tush ! whether it be or no, he shall be mine,
In spite of him, of Hymen, and of rites.
And here comes Adam of the Flower-de-luce ;
I hope he brings me tidings of my love.
How now, Adam, what is the news with you ?
Be not afraid ; my husband is now from home,
Alice
Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths ?
Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds ?
Have I for this given thee so many favours,
Incurred my husband's hate, and, out alas I
Made shipwreck of mine honour for thy sake ?
And dost thou say * henceforward know me not ' ?
Remember, when I lock'd thee in my closet,
What were thy words and mine ; did we not both
Decree to murder Arden in the night ?
The heavens can witness, and the world can tell,
Before I saw that falsehood look of thine,
'Fore I was tangled with thy 'ticing speech,
Arden to me was dearer than my soul,
And shall be still : base peasant, get thee gone,
And boast not of thy conquest over me,
Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery !
For what hast thou to countenance my love,
Being descended of a noble house,
And matched already with a gentleman
Whose servant thou may'st be ! and so farewell.

Tis Pity Shes A Whore (1633)

John Ford
Annabella
Pleasures, farewell, and all ye thriftless minutes
Wherein false joys have spun a weary life!
To these my fortunes now I take my leave.
Thou, precious Time, that swiftly ridst in post
Over the world, to finish up the race
Of my last fate, here stay thy restless course,
And bear to ages that are yet unborn
A wretched, woeful womans tragedy!
My conscience now stands up against my lust,
With depositions characterd in guilt,
Enter Friar, below.
And tells me I am lost: now I confess;
Beauty that clothes the outside of the face,
Is cursed if it be not clothd with grace.
Here like a turtle, (mewd up in a cage,)
Unmated, I converse with air and walls,
And descant on my vile unhappiness.
O Giovanni, that hast had the spoil
Of thine own virtues, and my modest fame;
Would thou hadst been less subject to those stars
That luckless reignd at my nativity!
O would the scourge, due to my black offence,
Might pass from thee, that I alone might feel
The torment of an uncontrouled flame!

Love for Love (1695)

William Congreve
ANGELICA (act 2 scene 3 remove forsight and nurses lines)
Is it not a good hour for pleasure too, uncle? Pray lend me your coach; mine's out of order.
Well, but I can neither make you a cuckold, uncle, by going abroad, nor secure you from being one
by staying at home.
But my inclinations are in force; I have a mind to go abroad, and if you won't lend me your coach, I'll
take a hackney or a chair, and leave you to erect a scheme, and find who's in conjunction with your
wife. Why don't you keep her at home, if you're jealous of her when she's abroad? You know my
aunt is a little retrograde (as you call it) in her nature. Uncle, I'm afraid you are not lord of the
ascendant, ha, ha, ha!
Nay, uncle, don't be angry--if you are, I'll reap up all your false prophecies, ridiculous dreams, and
idle divinations. I'll swear you are a nuisance to the neighbourhood. What a bustle did you keep
against the last invisible eclipse, laying in provision as 'twere for a siege. What a world of fire and
candle, matches and tinder-boxes did you purchase! One would have thought we were ever after to
live under ground, or at least making a voyage to Greenland, to inhabit there all the dark season.
Will you lend me your coach, or I'll go on--nay, I'll declare how you prophesied popery was coming
only because the butler had mislaid some of the apostle spoons, and thought they were lost. Away
went religion and spoon-meat together. Indeed, uncle, I'll indite you for a wizard.
Yes, I can make oath of your unlawful midnight practices, you and the old nurse there Yes, I saw you together through the key-hole of the closet one night, like Saul and the witch of
Endor, turning the sieve and shears, and pricking your thumbs, to write poor innocent servants'
names in blood, about a little nutmeg grater which she had forgot in the caudle-cup. Nay, I know
something worse, if I would speak of it.
Will you? I care not, but all shall out then. Look to it, nurse: I can bring witness that you have a great
unnatural teat under your left arm, and he another; and that you suckle a young devil in the shape of
a tabby-cat, by turns, I can.
Do, uncle, lock 'em up quickly before my aunt come home. You'll have a letter for alimony tomorrow morning. But let me be gone first, and then let no mankind come near the house, but
converse with spirits and the celestial signs, the bull and the ram and the goat. Bless me! There are a
great many horned beasts among the twelve signs, uncle. But cuckolds go to heaven.
Nor there had not been that one, if she had had to do with anything but astrologers, uncle. That
makes my aunt go abroad.

Volpone (1606)
Ben Johnson
Celia: Good sir, these things might move a mind affected
With such delights; but I, whose innocence
Is all I can think wealthy or worth th enjoying,
And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it,
Cannot be taken with these sensual baits:
If you have conscience
If you have ears that will be pierced; or eyes
That can be opened; a heart that may be touched;
Or any part that yet sounds man about you:
If you have touch of holy saints, or heaven,
Do me the grace to let me scape. If not,
Be bountiful, and kill me. You do know
I am a creature hither ill-betrayed
By one whose shame I would forget it were.
If you will deign me neither of these graces,
Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your lust
(It is a vice comes nearer manliness)
And punish that unhappy crime of Nature
Which you miscall my beauty: flat my face,
Or poison it with ointments, for seducing
Your blood in this rebellion. Rub these hands
With what may cause an eating leprosy
Een to my bones and marrow; anything
That may disfavour me, save in my honour.
And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay down
A thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health;
Report and think you virtuous
Oh! Just God!

The changeling (First performed 1622)

Thomas Middleton & William Rowley
Beatrice
This fellow has undone me endlessly:
Never was bride so fearfully distressed.
The more I think upon th' ensuing night,
And whom I am to cope with in embraces One thats ennobled both in blood and mind,
So clear in understanding (that's my plague now),
Before whose judgment will my fault appear
Like malefactors' crimes before tribunals,
(There is no hiding on't) - the more I dive
Into my own distress. How a wise man
Stands for a great calamity! There's no venturing
Into his bed, what course soe'er I light upon,
Without my shame, which may grow up to danger:
He cannot but in justice strangle me
As I lie by him, as a cheater use me.
'Tis a precious craft to play with a false die
Before a cunning gamester: here's his closet,
The key left in't, and he abroad i' th' park.
Sure, 'twas forgot; I'll be so bold as look in't.
Bless me! A right physician's closet 'tis,
Set round with vials, every one her mark too.
Sure he does practice physic for his own use,
Which may be safely called your great mans wisdom.
What manuscript lies here? The Book of Experiment,
Called Secrets in Nature - so 'tis, 'tis so:
"How to know whether a woman be with child or no" I hope I am not yet - if he should try, though!
Let me see: folio forty-five - here 'tis,
The leaf tucked down upon't, the place suspicious:
"If you would know whether a woman be with child or not, give her
two spoonfuls of the white water in glass C" Where's that glass C? Oh, yonder I see't now "And if she be with child, she sleeps full twelve hours after; if not,
not."
None of that water comes into my belly:
I'll know you from a hundred; I could break you now
turn you into milk, and so beguile
The master of the mystery, but I'll look to you.
Ha! That which is next, is ten times worse:
"How to know whether a woman be a maid, or not."
If that should be applied, what would become of me?
Belike he has a strong faith of my puri
That never yet made proof; but this he calls
"A merry sleight, but true experiment The author, Antonius Mizaldus:
Give the party you suspect the quantity of a spoonful of the water in
the glass M, which upon her that is a maid makes three several

effects: 'twill make her incontinently gape, then fall into a sudden
sneezing, last into a violent laughing - else dull, heavy, and
lumpish."
Where had I been?
I fear it, yet 'tis seven hours to bedtime