And I sate down clothed with a massy robe,
  That late adorned the Afric potentate,
  Whom I brought bound unto Damascus’ walls. 
  Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound,
  And in my blood wash all your hands at once,
  While I sit smiling to behold the sight. 
  Now, my boys, what think ye of a wound?

  CALYPHAS.—­I know not what I should think of it; methinks it is a
          pitiful sight.

  CELEBINUS.—­’Tis nothing:  give me a wound, father.

  AMYRAS.—­And me another, my lord.

  TAMBURLAINE.—­Come, sirrah, give me your arm.

  CELEBINUS.—­Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your own.

  TAMBURLAINE.—­It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound: 
  My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of blood
  Before we meet the army of the Turk;
  But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,
  Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death;
  And let the burning of Larissa-walls,
  My speech of war, and this my wound you see,
  Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds,
  Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

* * * * *

CATILINE TO THE ROMAN ARMY.

FROM “CATILINE,” ACT V. SC. 2.

Sound all to arms! (A flourish of trumpets.)
Call in the captains,—­ (To an officer)
I would speak with them!

(The officer goes.)

Now, Hope! away,—­and welcome gallant Death! 
Welcome the clanging shield, the trumpet’s yell,—­
Welcome the fever of the mounting blood,
That makes wounds light, and battle’s crimson toil
Seem but a sport,—­and welcome the cold bed,
Where soldiers with their upturned faces lie,—­
And welcome wolf’s and vulture’s hungry throats,
That make their sepulchres!  We fight to-night.

          (The soldiery enter.)

  Centurions! all is ruined!  I disdain
  To hide the truth from you.  The die is thrown! 
  And now, let each that wishes for long life
  Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome. 
  Ye all are free to go.  What! no man stirs! 
  Not one! a soldier’s spirit in you all? 
  Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes
  Is womanish,—­’twill pass.) My noble hearts! 
  Well have you chosen to die!  For, in my mind,
  The grave is better than o’erburdened life;
  Better the quick release of glorious wounds,
  Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues;
  Better the spear-head quivering in the heart,
  Than daily struggle against fortune’s curse;
  Better, in manhood’s muscle and high blood,
  To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge
  In poverty, dull pain, and base decay. 
  Once more, I say,—­are ye resolved?

(The soldiers shout, “All!  All!”)