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<121> 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,<122>
Whose shatter'd limbs, being toss'd 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,
Dying 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 conquer'd kings,
And, with his<123> host, march'd<124> round about the earth,
Quite void of scars and clear from any wound,
That by the wars lost not a drop<125> of blood,
And see him lance<126> 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 chair of gold enamelled,