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(For which the people's prayers still fall upon you,)
Must in your child be thought on. If neglection
Should therein make me vile, the common body,
By you reliev'd, would force me to my duty:
But if to that my nature need a spur,

The gods revenge it upon me and mine,
To the end of generation!

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Your honour and your goodness teach me to it,
Without your vows. Till she be married, madam,
By bright Diana, whom we honour all,

Unscissar'd shall this hair of mine remain,
Though I show will in 't. So I take my leave:
Good madam, make me blessed in your care

In bringing up my child.

DION.

I have one myself,

Who shall not be more dear to my respect,

Than yours, my lord.

PER.

Madam, my thanks and prayers.

CLE. We'll bring your grace even to the edge o' the shore; Then give you up to the mask'd Neptune, and

The gentlest winds of heaven.

PER.

I will embrace

Your offer. Come, dearest 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 CERIMON and THAISA.

CER. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,
Lay with you in your coffer; which are now
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 yearning time;
But whether there delivered or no,
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 'bide until 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 smali.

ACT IV.

Enter GOWER.

Gow. Imagine Pericles arriv'd at Tyre,
Welcom'd and settled to his own desire.
His woeful 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 right for marriage fight; 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, sinall, white as milk;

[Exeunt

Or when she would with sharp neeld wound
The cambric, which she made more sound
By hurting it; or when to the lute

She sung, and made the night-bird mute
That still records with moan; or when
She 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 murderer 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 carried 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 murderer.

[Exit

SCENE I.-Tharsus. An open place near the sea-shore.

Enter DIONYZA and LEONINE.

DION. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do it.

T is but a blow, which never shall be known.

Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,
To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,
Which is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom,
Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be
A soldier to thy purpose.

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

DION. The fitter then the gods above should have her. Here she comes weeping for her only mistress' death. Thou art resolv'd?

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Enter MARINA, with a basket of flowers.

MAR. 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 them.
Walk with Leonine; the air 's 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

DION. Come, come;

your servant.

I love the king your father, and yourself,

We every day

With more than foreign heart.
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 ta’en
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 't is 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 walk softly, do not heat your blood:

What! I must have a care of you.

MAR.

Is this wind westerly that blows?
LEON.

My thanks, sweet madam.

South-west.

[Exit DIONYZA.

MAR. When I was born the wind was north.
LEON.

Was 't so!

MAR. My father, as nurse said, did never fear,
But cried, "Good seamen," to the sailors, galling
His kingly hands with hauling of the ropes;
And, clasping to the mast, endur'd a sea

That almost burst the deck.

LEON.

MAR. When I was born.

When was this?

Never was waves nor wind more violent;
And from the ladder-tackle washes off

A canvas-climber: "Ha!" says one, “wilt out ?”
And with a dropping industry they skip

From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and

The master calls, and trebles their confusion.

LEON. Come, say your prayers.

MAR.

What mean you!

LEON. If you require a little space for prayer,

I grant it: pray; but be not tedious,

For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn
To do my work with haste.

MAR. Why will you kill me?

LEON. To satisfy my lady.

MAR. Why would she have me kill'd?
Now, as I can remember, by my troth,
I never did her hurt in all my life;
I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn,

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