Enchas'd with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
And fairest pearl of wealthy India,
Were mounted here under a canopy,
And I sat down, cloth'd with a massy robe
That late adorn'd 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<127> what I should think of it;
methinks 'tis a pitiful sight.

CELEBINUS. 'Tis<128> 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 dar'st 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,