« PreviousContinue »
I'd give it to undo the deed. O lady,
Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates,
Who can cross it?
Cle. 0, go to. Well, well,
Dion. Be one of those, that think
open this to Pericles. I do shame To think of what a noble strain you are, And of how cow'd a spirit.
Cle. To such proceeding
Dion. Be it so then :
It greets me, as an enterprize of kindness,
Cle. Heavens forgive it!
Dion. And as for Pericles,
Cle. Thou art like the harpy,
Dion. You are like one, that superstitiously
Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina
at Tharsus. Gow. Thus time we waste, and longest leagues
make short; Sail seas in cockles, have, and wish but fort; Making, (to take your imagination,) From bourn to bourn, region to region. By you being pardon'd, we commit no crime To use one language, in each several clime, Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you To learn of me, who stand i'the gaps to teach you The stages of our story. Pericles Is now again thwarting the wayward seas, (Attended on by many a lord and knight) To see his daughter, all his life's delight. Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late Advanc'd in time to great and high estate, Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind, Old Helicanus goes along behind.
Well-sailing ships, and bounteous winds, have brought
Enter at one door, Pericles with his Train; Cleon
and Dionyza at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb of Marina; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs. Then Cleon and Dionyza retire.
Gow. See how belief may suffer by foul show!
[Reads the inscription on Marina's
monument. The fairest, sweet'st, and best, lies here, Who wither'd in her spring of year. She was of Tyrus, the king's daughter, On whom foul death hath made this slaughter ; Marina was she call’d; and at her birth, Thetis, being proud, swallow'd some part o'the
Therefore the earth, fearing to be o'erflow'd, Hath Thetis' birth-child on the heavens bestow'd: Wherefore she does, (and swears she'll never stint,)
Make raging battery upon shores of flint. No visor does become black villainy, So well as soft and tender flattery. Let Pericles believe his daughter's dead, And bear his courses to be ordered By lady fortune; while our scenes display His daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day, In her unholy service. Patience then, And think you now are all in Mitylen. [Exit.
SCENE V.--Mitylene. A street before the
Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. i Gent. Did you ever hear the like?
2 Gent. No, por never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone.
i Gent. But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing?
2 Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdyhouses: Shall we go hear the vestals sing?
i Gent. I'll do any thing now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting, for ever. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.-The same.
A room in the brothel.
Enter Pander, Bawd, and BOULT. Pand. Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her, she had ne'er come here.
Bawd. Fye, fye upon her ; she is able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When
she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master-reasons, her
her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her.
Boult. 'Faith, I must ravish her, or she'll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make all our swearers priests.
Pand. Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for me!
Bawd. 'Faith, there's no way to be rid on't, but by the way to the pox. Here comes the lord Lysimachus, disguised.
Boult. We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers.
Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good bealth.
Lys. You may so; 'tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now, wholesome iniquity? Have you that a man may
deal withal, and defy the surgeon?
Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would but there never came her like in Mitylene.
Lys. If she'd do the deeds of darkness, thou
Bawd. Your honour knows what 'tis to say, well enough.
Lys. Well; call forth, call forth.
Boult. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but
Lys. What, pr’ythee?