Where death cuts off the progress of his pomp And murderous fates throw all his triumphs down.

From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits, And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, We'll lead you to the stately tent of war, Where you shall hear the Scyt…

Well, bark, ye dogs; I'll bridle all your tongues.

And sooner shall the sun fall from his sphere Than Tamburlaine be slain or overcome.