The raging Turke, or, Baiazet the Second A tragedie written by Thomas Goffe, Master of Arts, and student of Christ-Church in Oxford, and acted by the students of the same house

A Tragedie written by THOMAS
GOFFE, Master of Arts, and Student of
Christ-Church in Oxford, and Acted by the
Students of the same house. Monstra fato, scelera moribus imputes
Det ille veniam facilè cui venia est opus.

Printed by AUGUST. MATHEWES, for

PUBLISHED BY August. Mathewes
PUBLISHED FOR Rrichard Meighan

1. Actus Quinti, Scena Decima.

Enter Solymanas newly Crowned. Souldier, Attendants, warlike Musick.
Is Selym s deceased?
He is my Lord.
Who Solymus? what Fate durst be so bold:
Oh, I could act an holy frenzy now
Selymus deceas'd? What did not Atlas tremble
At such a burden? Can he support the Orbe
That holds up Selymus? is not yet the Pole
Crackt with his weight? doe not the heavens preparr
His funerall Exequies? Iove I inuol e thee now,
Command the heavens that the prone Chandler shops
Command that idle Phaebus, that he exhale
Matter from earth to make thy unerall Tapers:
Or I'le make Torches of the universe
In stead of Comets; flaming Countries, Cities
Shall be thy cer moniall Tapers:
Or if not this; I'le ransack Christendome,
Kings Daughters I'le embowell for a Sacrifice,
Their fat with vestall fire will I refine,
And offer virgins ware unto thy shrine.
Start back bright Phaebus, let thy firie Steedes
Keepe Holiday for Selymus. tell thy host
Proud Neptune now expects anothers deluge,
That all the earth may weepe for Selymus.
What doe you smile you Heavens? are ye conscious,
And guilty of this execrable treason?
What dare the fields to laugh when I doe mourne?
I'le dye your motly colour'd weedes in scarlet,
And cloath the world in black destruction.
Nemesis, I'le naile thee to my greedy sword,
Destruction shall serve under me a Prentiship.
Courage brave Selxie, with thy Princely boat
Through Styx even all mortality shall float;
I'le leavie Souldiers through the Universe,
With which thou shalt beguirt Elizeum;
Thus barren Nature shall repent thy fall,
Grieving that shee did not the event forestall;
Death I will hate thee: the world shall weare
Thy sable liverie embroydered with feare:
Thy Trophies every where the world shall gaze on:
Thy Armes in sable and in gules I blazon.
My Lord this Crowne ent eates you leave off these
Ground-creeping meditations, and to thinke
Of Majestie, wherefore we inuest your browe
With this rich robe of glory, and doe vowe
To it our due alleageance: thus you shall
Mount up aloft above your Fathers fall.
Thus our deare Father, those bright robes of state,
For which so lately thou hast sweat in blood,
Thou wearest upon my shoulders in thy stead:
Thus are we crown'd, and thus our labours bee,
Made gainefull unto thine, though not to thee.
Live then, and raigne most mighty Emperour,
Whilst that our care and watchfull prou dence,
Shall fence thy safety, and keepe Sentinell
Over thy sacred person, were black treasons,
Hatcht in the Center of the darkest earth,
The massie element should be prospective
For all our piercing eyes; should Pluto send
His black Apparator to summon thee
To appeare before him, by that Mahomet
We would confront him boldly, and excuse
Thy absence unto Pluto, by our presence;
Death we'le disarme thee, if thou dar'starrest
Thy fury on our Solyman, or we'le bale his person
With our imprisonment.
By our death thou shalt live; our Citie walls
May with warlike ruine be battered,
But our alleageance, that European Bull,
Shall never push from us, with his golden hornes;
Nor shall his guilded showers quench our loves:
No golden Enginer shall undermine
The Castles of our faith, nor blow them up
with blasts of hop'd preferment, were thy walls
But paper, were they made of brittle glasse,
Our faiths should make them marble, and as firme,
As Admant: not walls, but subjects love,
Doe to a Prince the strongest Castle prove.
Behold great Prince alleageance mixt with love
Lock'd in our breasts: thou art the living key
To shut, and to unlock them at thy pleasure:
No golden pick-lock shall e're s rue it selfe
Into these faithfull locks, whose onely springs
Can be no other then our owne heart strings,
Our greedy swords which erst imbru'd in blood,
Did seeme to blush at their owne Masters acts,
And upbraid us with our bloody facts
Though peace hath now cond mn'd to pleasing rust,
Yet at thy beck we'le sheath them in the breast
Of daring Christians, thus in warre we'le fight
For thee, whil'st thou dost strive for victory:
Here to describe such Princely vertues, which
Should more adorne thy Crowne then Orient pearles,
Were but to shew a glasse, and to commend
Thy selfe unto thy selfe. Be gracious,
Magnificent, couragious, or milde,
Or more compendiously, be more thy selfe,
Raigne then, and Mahomet grant that thou may'st passe
Nestor in yeares, as much as now thou dost
In wisedome and in valour; Herauld proclaime
To the world his title, and let swift-winged Fame
Second thy trumpet.
Long live Solymon, &c.
We thanke you friendly Actors of our blisse,
Our patience hath at length tired out the gods;
Our Empire hath beene rackt enough with treasons,
And black seditions, as if no Christians
Were left to conquer, wee yeeld our Turkish blades
Against our selves, imbowelling the State
With bloudy discord, by our strength we fall
A scorne to Christians, with our hands we shed
That bloud which might have conqu red Christendome;
Thus while we hate our selves we love our enemies,
And heale them with our sores, whil'st we lye weltring
n bloudy peace: the dy of the publique safety
Hath beene already cast by th'hand of warre,
Treasons have made a blot, which may provoke
The enemie to enter, and beare our men
To darke Auernus, Envie might have blusht,
Though alwayes pale at all our projects: now
This bloudy deluge is quite past, returne
Sweet Peace with th'Olive branch, enough of warres,
'Tis thou must powre oyle into our scarres.
Fly hence Hereditary hate, discords dead,
Let not succeeding omnities and hatred live.
Let none presume to cover p ivate sores
With publique ruines, nor let black discord
Make an Anatomie of our too leane
Empire, let it wax fat againe; when peace
Hath knit her knots, then shall the wanton sounds
Of Bells give place to thundring Bo bardes,
And blood wash out the smoothing oyle of Peace,
Every Souldier I'le ordaine a Priest
To ring a fatall knell to Christians,
And every minute unto earths wide wombe,
Shall sacrifice a Chrisitians Hecatombe:
Then shall we make a league with Aeolus,
The windes shall strive to further our proceedings,
Then will we loade the Seas, and fetter Neptune
With chaines that hold our Anchors; he shall quake
Lest he to Pan resigne his watry Empire, And three fork'dmace
unto my awfull Scepter; The Whales and Dolphins shall amazed stand,
That they shall yeeld their place to Beares and Lyon ,
Sylla shall howle for feare when she shall see
The Sea become a Forrest, and her selfe
Mountanie, then let Syrens quake
For feare of Satyres, then let the Christians thinke,
Not that our Navie, but the Country it selfe
Is come to move them from the growing earth;
Comets, fiery swords shall be my Heraulds,
Threatning to th'world suddaine combustion:
Let our armes be steely bowes, our arrowes
Thunderbolts, and in stead of warlike Drumme ,
Thunder shall proclaime black destruction;
Vulcan I'le tax thee, exercise thy Forge,
Prepare to me for all the world a scourge,
The Fates to me their powers shall resig e,
Which with this hand will rend the strongest twine
Of humane breath, first for the I'le of Rhodes
Destruction there shall keepe his mournfull Stage:
Th'inhabitants shall act a bloody Tragedy,
And personate themselves; Then for Nayos Ile
Death there shall keepe her Court, then I will make
Vienna all a Shambles; yea gaping Famine
Ever devouring, alwayes wanting foode,
Shall gnaw their bowels, and shall leane them nothing
Besides themselves to feede on; their dead corpes
Shall be entombed in their neighbours bellies.
There every one shall be a li ing Sepulcher,
An unhallowed Churchyard; famine shall feede it selfe,
Then shall they envie beasts, and wish to be
Our Iades, our Mules, Matrons shall strive to bring
Into the hatefull light abortive Brats;
The Infants shall returne, and the leane wombe
Shall be unto the Babes a suddaine tombe.
Then shall they hoard carcasses, and strive
Onely to be rich in Funerals; I'de rejoyce
To see them stand like Screech-Owles, gaping when
Their Parents should expire, and bequeath
To hell their wretched soules, to them their death.
Long live great Solymon our noble Emperour.
All this, and more then this I'le doe, when peace
Hath glutted our new greedy appetites,
when it hath fill'd the veines of the Empire full
With vigour, then lest too much blood should cause
Armies of vices, not of men to kill us,
And strength breed weaknesse in our too great Empire,
Then, then, and onely then we shall thinke good,
With warre to let the body politick blood,
Meane time we'le thinke on our Fathers Funerall:
Oh, I could be an holy Epicure,
In teares, and pleasing sighes, Oh I could now
Refresh my selfe with sorrow, I could emblame
Thy corpes with holy groanes from putrifaction:
Oh, I could powder up thy thirsty corpes
With brinish teares, and wipe them off with kisses,
And that I might more freely speake my griefe,
These eyes should be still silent Orators,
Till blindnesse shut them up were I a woman:
But I am Solyman, Emperour, the Turke,
Blood shall be my teares, I'le thinke thee slaine
Amongst the Christians, and translate my griefe
To fury, every member of my body
Shall execute the office of a weeping sonne.
Thus in my teares an Argus will I bee,
My head, heart, hands, and all shall weepe or thee.
Oh that the cruell Fates were halfe so milde
As to drive streames of teares from forth the springs,
Great sorrowes have no leasure to complaine,
Least ills vent forth, great griefes within remaine:
See Selymus, sometimes a fore-string instrument
Feeding his Souldiers w th sweet Harmony,
Doth now tune nought to us but Lacrymy,
Could n' Aesculapius be found to tune
His disagreeing elements treasons crackt
The string which else an headach would untune.
Every disease is a ragged fort
To weare these strings asunder, treason did lend
Death, which both age, and sicknesse did intend;
What then remaines, but that his Funerall rites,
With our Grandfather, Uncles be solemnized,
That so black discord may be with them buried:
But noble Selymus what Tombe shall I prepare
For thy memoriall? shall a heavy stone
Presse thy innocent ashes? Shall I confine
Thy wandring ghost in some high marble prison?
Or shall I hither fetch the flying I mbe
Of proud Mausolus the rich Carian King?
No; Religion shall cloake no such injurie,
No hired Rhethorick shall adorne thy coarse,
No pratling stone shall trumpet forth thy praise,
The world's thy tombe, thy Epitaph I'le ca ue
In Funerals, destruction is the booke
In which we'le write thy annalls, blood's the Inke,
Our sword the Pen; A Tragedy I intend,
Which with a Plangity, no Plaudity shall end.


This is the full version of the original text


battered, blood, christian, destruction, pleasure, princely, strings, war

Source text

Title: The raging Turke, or, Baiazet the Second A tragedie written by Thomas Goffe, Master of Arts, and student of Christ-Church in Oxford, and acted by the students of the same house

Author: Thomas Goffe


Publication date: 1631

Edition: 2nd Edition

Place of publication: London

Provenance/location: This text was transcribed from images available at Early English Books Online: Bibliographic name / number: STC (2nd ed.) / 11980 Bibliographic name / number: Greg, II, 447(a). / Physical description: [104] p. Copy from: British Library Reel position: STC / 1068:04

Digital edition

Original author(s): Thomas Goffe

Language: English

Selection used:

  • 1 ) tp, Act 5, sc. 10 (whole scene)


Texts collected by: Ayesha Mukherjee, Amlan Das Gupta, Azarmi Dukht Safavi

Texts transcribed by: Muhammad Irshad Alam, Bonisha Bhattacharya, Arshdeep Singh Brar, Muhammad Ehteshamuddin, Kahkashan Khalil, Sarbajit Mitra

Texts encoded by: Bonisha Bhattacharya, Shreya Bose, Lucy Corley, Kinshuk Das, Bedbyas Datta, Arshdeep Singh Brar, Sarbajit Mitra, Josh Monk, Reesoom Pal

Encoding checking by: Hannah Petrie, Gary Stringer, Charlotte Tupman

Genre: Britain > plays

For more information about the project, contact Dr Ayesha Mukherjee at the University of Exeter.