"Tis most strange,

Nature should be so conversant with pain,

Being thereto not compell'd.

Cer.
I hold it ever,
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs
May the two latter darken and expend;
But immortality attends the former,
Making a man a god. 'Tis known, I ever

Have studied physic, through which secret art,
By turning o'er authorities, I have
(Together with my practice) made familiar
To me and to my aid, the blest infusions
That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;
And can speak of the disturbances that nature
Works, and of her cures; which doth give me
A more content, in course of true delight,
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour,
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

To please the fool and death.

2 Gent. Most likely, sir. Cer.

Nay, certainly to-night;

For look, how fresh she looks.-They were too rough,
That threw her in the sea. Make fire within:

Fetch hither all the boxes in my closet.
Death may usurp on nature many hours,
And yet the fire of life kindle again
The overpressed spirits. I heard

Of an Egyptian, that had nine hours lien dead,
Who was by good appliance recovered.

Enter a Servant, with Boxes, Napkins, and Fire.
Well said, well said; the fire and the cloths.-
The rough and woful music that we have,

Cause it to sound, 'beseech you.

The vial once more;-how thou stirr'st, thou block !— The music there!-I pray you, give her air. Gentlemen,

nature awakes a warm she hath not been entranc'd See, how she 'gins to blow

This queen will live
Breath out of her:
Above five hours.
Into life's flower again!

Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest: 'Tis of some wreck. Cer.

Set it down; let's look upon't. 2 Gent. "Tis like a coffin, sir. Cer.

Whate'er it be, 'Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight: If the sea's stomach be o'ercharg'd with gold, 'Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us. 2 Gent. 'Tis so, my lord. Cer.

How close 'tis caulk'd and bitum'd. Did the sea cast it up?

Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, As toss'd it upon shore.

Cer.

Come, wrench it open.

Soft, soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. 2 Gent. A delicate odour.

Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it. O, you most potent gods! what's here? a corse? 1 Gent. Most strange!

Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state; balm'd and entreasured

With full bags of spices! A passport too:

Apollo, perfect me i' the characters! [Unfolds a Scroll.

"Here I give to understand,

(If e'er this coffin drive a-land)

I, king Pericles, have lost

Which Pericles hath lost,

Begin to part their fringes of bright gold:
The diamonds of a most praised water
Do appear to make the world twice rich. Live,
And make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature,
Rare as you seem to be!
[She moves.

O dear Diana!

Thai. Where am I? Where's my lord? What world is this? 2 Gent. Is not this strange? 1 Gent. Cer.

Most rare.

Hush, gentle neighbours!

Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her.
Get linen now this matter must be look'd to,
For her relapse is mortal. Come, come;
And Esculapius guide us!

[Exeunt, carrying THAISA out. SCENE III.-Tharsus. A Room in CLEON'S House. Enter PERICLES, CLEON, DIONYZA, LYCHORIDA, and MARINA.

Per. Most honour'd Cleon, I must needs be gone: My twelve months are expir'd, and Tyrus stands In a litigious peace. You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness; the gods Make up the rest upon you!

Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally,

Yet glance full wanderingly on us.

Dion.

O, your sweet queen! That the strict fates had pleas'd you had brought her hither,

To have bless'd mine eyes! Per.

This queen, worth all our mundane cost.
Who finds her, give her burying;
She was the daughter of a king:
Besides this treasure for a fee,
The gods requite his charity!"

If thou liv'st, Pericles, thou hast a heart

That even cracks for woe !-This chanc'd to-night.

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.

Per.
I believe you;
Your honour and your goodness teach me to't,
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, dear'st madam.-O! no tears,

Enter GoWER.

Gow. Imagine Pericles arriv'd at Tyre,
Welcom'd and settled to his own desire:
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:

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

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 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. [Exeunt.

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 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

With the dove of Paphos might 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:

Enter DIONYZA and LEONINE.

Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do't:
'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.
Thou canst not do a thing i' the 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.

Leon. I'll do't; but yet she is a goodly creature.
Dion. The fitter then the gods should have her.

Here

Enter MARINA, with a Basket of Flowers. Mar. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed,

To strew thy grave 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 weep 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, 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.

But yet

Well, I will go;

I have no desire to it.
Dion. Come, come, I know 'tis good for you.
Walk half an hour, Leonine, at 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.

Pand. Search the market narrowly; Mitylene is full of gallants: we lost too much money this mart, by

South-west.

Mar. When I was born, the wind was north. Leon.

Was't so?

Mar. My father, as nurse said, did never fear, But cry'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 were waves nor wind more violent;
And from the ladder-tackle washes off

A canvass-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
To any living creature: believe me, la,
I never kill'd a mouse, nor hurt a fly:
I trod upon a worm against my will,
But I wept for it. How have I offended,
Wherein my death might yield her profit, or
My life imply her any danger?
Leon.

My commission

Is not to reason of the deed, but do it.

Mar. You will not do't for all the world, I hope. You are well favour'd, and your looks foreshow You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately, When you caught hurt in parting two that fought: Good sooth, it show'd well in you: do so now: Your lady seeks my life; come you between,

Bawd. We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten.

Pand. Therefore, let's have fresh ones, whate'er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper.

Bawd. Thou say'st true: 'tis not the bringing up of poor bastards, as I think, I have brought up some eleven

Boult. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?

Bawd. What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.

Pand. Thou say'st true; they're too unwholesome o' conscience. The poor Transilvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage.

Boult. Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I'll go search the market. [Exit BOULT. Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over. Bawd. Why, to give over, I pray you? is it a shame to get when we are old?

Pand. O! our credit comes not in like the commodity; nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, 'twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over.

Bawd. Come; other sorts offend as well as we. Pand. As well as we? ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it's no calling. But here comes Boult.

Enter BoULT, and the Pirates with MARINA. Boult. Come your ways. My masters, you say she's a virgin?

1 Pirate. O, sir! we doubt it not.

Boult. Master, I have gone thorough for this piece, you see if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my

earnest.

Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities?

Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent good clothes: there's no farther necessity of qualities can make her be refused.

Bawd. What's her price, Boult?

Boult. I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand pieces. Pand. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in: instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment. [Exeunt Pander and Pirates. Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her; the colour of her hair, complexion, height, her age, with warrant of her virginity, and cry, "He that will give most, shall have her first.' Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you.

Boult. Performance shall follow. [Exit BoULT. Mar. Alack, that Leonine was so slack, so slow! He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates, (Not enough barbarous) had not o'erboard thrown me For to seek my mother!

Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one?
Mar. That I am pretty.

Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part in you.
Mar. I accuse them not.

Bawd. You are lit into my hands, where you are like to live.

Mar. Are you a woman?

Bawd. Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully, which you commit willingly; to despise profit, where you have most gain. To weep that you live as you do makes pity in your lovers: seldom, but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit.

Mar. I understand you not.

Boult. O! take her home, mistress, take her home: these blushes of her's must be quenched with some present practice.

Bawd. Thou say 'st true, i' faith, so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame, which is her way to go with warrant.

Boult. Faith, some do, and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint,—

Bawd. Thou may'st cut a morsel off the spit.
Boult. I may so?

Bawd. Who should deny it? Come, young one, I like the manner of your garments well.

Boult. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet. Bawd. Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a sojourner we have; you'll lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore, say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report.

Boult. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels, as my giving out her beauty stir up the lewdly inclined. I'll bring home some tonight.

Bawd. Come your ways; follow me.

Mar. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep, Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. Diana, aid my purpose!

Bawd. What have we to do with Diana? Pray you,

woman?

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market? Boult. I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs: I have drawn her picture with my voice. Bawd. And I pr'ythee, tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort?

Boult. Faith, they listened to me, as they would have hearkened to their father's testament. There was a Spaniard's mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description.

Bawd. We shall have him here to-morrow with his best ruff on.

Boult. To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i' the hams? Bawd. Who? monsieur Veroles?

Boult. Ay: he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her to-morrow.

Bawd. Well, well; as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know, he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun. Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign.

[Exeunt. SCENE IV.-Tharsus. A Room in CLEON'S House. Enter CLEON and DIONYZA.

Dion. Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone? Cle. O Dionyza ! such a piece of slaughter The sun and moon ne'er look'd upon. Dion.

You'll turn a child again.

I think,

Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world, I'd give it to undo the deed. O lady! Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess To equal any single crown o' the earth, I' the justice of compare! O villain Leonine! Whom thou hast poison'd too.

If thou hadst drunk to him, it had been a kindness Becoming well thy face: what canst thou say, When noble Pericles shall demand his child?

Who can cross it,

Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, To foster it, nor ever to preserve. She died at night; I'll say so. Unless you play the pious innocent, And for an honest attribute, cry out, "She died by foul play?"

Cle.
O! go to. Well, well;
Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods
Do like this worst.

Dion.
Be one of those, that think
The pretty wrens of Tharsus will fly hence,
And open this to Pericles. I do shame
To think of what a noble strain you are,
And of how coward a spirit.
Cle.
To such proceeding
Who ever but his approbation added,
Though not his pre-consent, he did not flow