you best,
  For which the quinque-angle form is meet,
  Because the corners there may fall more flat
  Whereas the fort may fittest be assailed,
  And sharpest where the assault is desperate. 
  The ditches must be deep; the counterscarps
  Narrow and steep; the walls made high and broad;
  The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong,
  With cavalieros and thick counterforts,
  And room within to lodge six thousand men. 
  It must have privy ditches, countermines,
  And secret issuings to defend the ditch;
  It must have high argins and covered ways,
  To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,
  And parapets to hide the musketers;
  Casemates to place the great artillery;
  And store of ordnance, that from every flank
  May scour the outward curtains of the fort,
  Dismount the cannon of the adverse part,
  Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach. 
  When this is learned for service on the land,
  By plain and easy demonstration
  I’ll teach you how to make the water mount,
  That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools,
  Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little seas,
  And make a fortress in the raging waves,
  Fenced with the concave of monstrous rock,
  Invincible by nature of the place. 
  When this is done then are ye soldiers,
  And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.

  CALYPHAS.—­My lord, but this is dangerous to be done: 
  We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.

  TAMBURLAINE.—­Villain!  Art thou the son of Tamburlaine,
  And fear’st to die, or with a curtle-axe
  To hew thy flesh, and make a gaping wound? 
  Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strike
  A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,
  Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as Heaven,
  Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes,
  And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death? 
  Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe,
  Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands,
  Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood,
  And yet at night carouse within my tent,
  Filling their empty veins with airy wine,
  That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood.—­
  And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds? 
  View me, thy father, that hath conquered kings,
  And with his horse marched round about the earth
  Quite void of scars and clear from any wound,
  That by the wars lost not a drop of blood,—­
  And see him lance his flesh to teach you all.
            (He cuts his arm.)
  A wound is nothing, be it ne’er so deep;
  Blood is the god of war’s rich livery,
  Now look I like a soldier, and this wound
  As great a grace and majesty to me,
  As if a chain of gold, enamelled,
  Enchased with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
  And fairest pearl of wealthy India,
  Were mounted here under a canopy,