Now sleep yslaked hath the rouse;

No din but snores about the house,

Made louder by the o’erfed breast

Of this most pompous marriage feast.

The cat, with eyne of burning coal,

Now couches fore the mouse’s hole;

And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth,

Are the blither for their drouth.

Hymen hath brought the bride to bed,

Where, by the loss of maidenhead,

A babe is moulded. Be attent,

And time that is so briefly spent

With your fine fancies quaintly eche:

What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech.

By many a dern and painful perch

Of Pericles the careful search,

By the four opposing coigns

Which the world together joins,

Is made with all due diligence

That horse and sail and high expense

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre,

Fame answering the most strange enquire,

To th’ court of King Simonides

Are letters brought, the tenour these:

Antiochus and his daughter dead;

The men of Tyrus on the head

Of Helicanus would set on

The crown of Tyre, but he will none:

The mutiny he there hastes t’oppress;

Says to ’em, if King Pericles

Come not home in twice six moons,

He, obedient to their dooms,

Will take the crown. The sum of this,

Brought hither to Pentapolis

Y-ravished the regions round,

And everyone with claps can sound,

‘Our heir apparent is a king!

Who dreamt, who thought of such a thing?’

Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre:

His queen with child makes her desire—

Which who shall cross?—along to go:

Omit we all their dole and woe:

Lychorida, her nurse, she takes,

And so to sea. Their vessel shakes

On Neptune’s billow; half the flood

Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood

Varies again; the grisled north

Disgorges such a tempest forth,

That, as a duck for life that dives,

So up and down the poor ship drives:

The lady shrieks, and well-a-near

Does fall in travail with her fear:

And what ensues in this fell storm

Shall for itself itself perform.

I nill relate, action may

Conveniently the rest convey;

Which might not what by me is told.

In your imagination hold

This stage the ship, upon whose deck

The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak.

Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges,

Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou that hast

Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,

Having call’d them from the deep! O, still

Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench

Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida,

How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously;

Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle

Is as a whisper in the ears of death,

Unheard. Lychorida! - Lucina, O!

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity

Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs

Of my queen’s travails! Now, Lychorida!

Here is a thing too young for such a place,

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I

Am like to do: take in your arms this piece

Of your dead queen.

How? how, Lychorida?

Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.

Here’s all that is left living of your queen,

A little daughter: for the sake of it,

Be manly, and take comfort.

O you gods!

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,

And snatch them straight away? We here below

Recall not what we give, and therein may

Vie honour with you.

Patience, good sir.

Even for this charge.

Now, mild may be thy life!

For a more blustrous birth had never babe:

Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for

Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world

That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows!

Thou hast as chiding a nativity

As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,

To herald thee from the womb.

Even at the first thy loss is more than can

Thy portage quit, with all thou canst find here,

Now, the good gods throw their best eyes upon’t!

What courage, sir? God save you!

Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw;

It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love

Of this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer,

I would it would be quiet.

Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split

thyself.

But sea-room, and the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care

not.

Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud

and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead.

That’s your superstition.

Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it has been still observed; and we are

strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard

straight.

As you think meet. Most wretched queen!

Here she lies, sir.

A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear;

No light, no fire: th’unfriendly elements

Forgot thee utterly; nor have I time

To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight

Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze;

Where, for a monument upon thy bones,

And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale

And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse,

Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida.

Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,

My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander

Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe

Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say

A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.

Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready.

I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?

We are near Tarsus.

Thither, gentle mariner,

Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it?

By break of day, if the wind cease.

O, make for Tarsus!

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe

Cannot hold out to Tyrus. There I’ll leave it

At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner:

I’ll bring the body presently.