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Your offer. Come, dear'st madam.—-O, no tears,

Lychorida, no tears!

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace

You may depend hereafter. — Come, my lord. [Exeunt.

Scene IV.
Ephesus. A Room in Cerimon's House.

Enter CEBiMoisr and Thaisa.

Cer. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,
Lay with you in your coffer, which are
At your command. Know you the character?

Thai. It is my lord's.
That I was shipp'd at sea, I well remember,
Even on my yeaning time; but whether there
Deliver'd, by the holy gods,
I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles,
My wedded lord, I ne'er shall see again,
A vestal livery will I take me to,
And never more have joy.

Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as you speak,
Diana's temple is not distant far,
Where you may abide till your date expire.
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine
Shall there attend you.

Thai. My recompense is thanks, that's all; Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.



Enter Gowek.


MAGINE Pericles arriv'd at Tyre, Welcom'd and settled to his own desire i His woful queen we leave at Ephesus, Unto Diana there a votaress. Now to Marina bend your mind, Whom our fast-growing scene must find At Tharsus, and by Cleon train'd In music, letters; who hath gain'd Of education all the grace, Which makes her both the heart and place Of general wonder. But, alack! That monster envy, oft the wrack Of earned praise, Marina's life Seeks to take off by treason's knife. And in this kind hath our Cleon One daughter, and a wench full grown, Even ripe for marriage-rite: this maid Hight Philoten; and it is said For certain in our story, she Would ever with Marina be: Be 't when she weav'd the sleided silk With fingers, long, small, white as milk; Or when she would with sharp needle wound The cambric, which she made more sound By hurting it; or when to the lute She sung, and made the night-bird mute5 That still records with moan; or when Sne would with rich and constant pen Vail to her mistress Dian; still

This Philoten contends in skill

With absolute Marina: so

The dove of Paphos might with the crow

Vie feathers white. Marina gets

All praises, which are paid as debts,

And not as given. This so darks

In Philoten all graceful marks,

That Cleon's wife, with envy rare,

A present murtherer does prepare

For good Marina, that her daughter

Might stand peerless by this slaughter.

The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,

Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:

And cursed Dionyza hath

The pregnant instrument of wrath

Prest for this blow. The unborn event

I do commend to your content:

Only I carry winged time

Post on the lame feet of my rhyme;

Which never could I so convey,

Unless your thoughts went on my way. —

Dionyza doth appear,

With Leonine, a murtherer. [Exit.

Scene I.
Tharsus. An open Place near *he Sea-shore.

Enter Dionyza an. Le^ine.

Dion. Thy oath remember; f.hou hast sworn to do't: 'Tis but a blow which never shall be known. Thou canst not do a thing i' th' world so soon,

To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,
Which is but cold, inflaming love in thy bosom,
Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which
Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be
A soldier to thy purpose.

Leonine. I'll do 't; but yet she is a goodly creature.

Dion. The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here She comes weeping for her only nurse's death. Thou art resolv'd?

Leon. I am resolv'd.

Enter Marina, loith a basket of flowers.

Marina.. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed, To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall, as a carpet, hang upon thy grave, While summer days do last. Ah. me, poor maid! Born in a tempest, when my mother died, This world to me is like a lasting storm, Whirring me from my friends.

Dion. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?
How chance my daughter is not with you? Do not
Consume your blood with sorrowing: you have
A nurse of me. Lord! how your favour 's chang'd
With this unprofitable woe! Come;
Give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it.
Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there,
And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come,
Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.

Mar. No, I pray you;
I'll not bereave you of your servant

Dion. Come, come;

I love the King your father, and yourself,

With more than foreign heart. We every day
Expect him here: when he shall come, and find
Our paragon to all reports thus blasted,
He will repent the breadth of his great voyage,
Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken
No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you;
Walk, and be cheerful once again: reserve
That excellent complexion, which did steal
The eyes of young and old. Care not for me;
I can go home alone.

Mar. Well, I will go;

But yet I have no desire to it.

Dion. Come, come, I know 'tis good for you. ■— Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least. Remember what I have said.

Leon. I warrant you, madam.

Dion. I'll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while. Pray you walk softly, do not heat your blood: What! I must have care of you.

Mar. My thanks, sweet madam. -—

[_Exit Dionyza. Is the wind westerly that blows?

Leon. South-west.

Mar. When I was born, the wind was North.

Leon. Was 't so?

Mar. My father, as nurse saith, did never fear, But cri'd "good seamen!" to the sailors, galling His kingly hands, hauling ropes, And, clasping to the mast, endur'd a sea That almost burst the deck.

Leon. When was this?

Mar. When I was born: Never was waves nor wind more violent; And from the ladder-tackle washes off A canvass-climber. "Ha!" says one, "wilt out?"

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