ethren, sweet Meander, say,
That sprung of teeth of dragons venomous?

MEANDER. So poets say, my lord.

MYCETES. And 'tis a pretty toy to be a poet.
Well, well, Meander, thou art deeply read;
And having thee, I have a jewel sure.
Go on, my lord, and give your charge, I say;
Thy wit will make us conquerors to-day.

MEANDER. Then, noble soldiers, to entrap these thieves
That live confounded in disorder'd troops,
If wealth or riches may prevail with them,
We have our camels laden all with gold,
Which you that be but common soldiers
Shall fling in every corner of the field;
And, while the base-born Tartars take it up,
You, fighting more for honour than for gold,
Shall massacre those greedy-minded slaves;
And, when their scatter'd army is subdu'd,
And you march on their slaughter'd carcasses,
Share equally the gold that bought their lives,
And live like gentlemen in Persia.
Strike up the [84] drum, and march courageously:
Fortune herself doth sit upon our crests.

MYCETES. He tells you true, my masters; so he does.--
Drums, why sound ye not when Meander speaks?

[Exeunt, drums sounding.]

SCENE III.

Enter COSROE, TAMBURLAINE, THERIDAMAS, TECHELLES,
USUMCASANE,
and ORTYGIUS, with others.

COSROE. Now, worthy Tamburlaine, have I repos'd
In thy approved fortunes all my hope.
What think'st thou, man, shall come of our attempts?
For, even as from assured oracle,
I take thy doom for satisfaction.

TAMBURLAINE. And so mistake you not a whit, my lord;
For fates and oracles [of] heaven have sworn
To royalize the deeds of Tamburlaine,
And make them blest that share in his attempts:
And doubt you not but, if you favour me,
And let my fortunes and my valour sway
To some [85] direction in your martial deeds,
The world will [86] strive with hosts of men-at-arms
To swarm unto the ensign I support.
The host of Xerxes, which by fame is said
To drink the mighty Parthian Araris,
Was but a handful to that we will have:
Our quivering lances, shaking in the air,
And bullets, like Jove's dreadful thunderbolts,
Enroll'd in flames and fiery smouldering mists,
Shall threat the gods more than Cyclopian wars;
And with our sun-bright armour, as we march,
We'