Still doth this man, or rather god of war, Batter our walls and beat our turrets down; And to resist with longer stubbornness, Or hope of rescue from the Soldan's power, Were but to bring our wilful overthrow, And make us desperate of our threaten'd lives. We see his tents have now been altered With terrors to the last and cruel'st hue; His coal-black colours, every where advanc'd, Threaten our city with a general spoil; And, if we should with common rites of arms Offer our safeties to his clemency, I fear the custom proper to his sword, Which he observes as parcel of his fame, Intending so to terrify the world, By any innovation or remorse Will never be dispens'd with till our deaths. Therefore, for these our harmless virgins' sakes, Whose honours and whose lives rely on him, Let us have hope that their unspotted prayers, Their blubber'd cheeks, and hearty humble moans, Will melt his fury into some remorse, And use us like a loving conqueror.

Governor Monologue from Tamburlaine

Rehearse Governor's monologue