Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre,

Welcomed 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 Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d

In music’s 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 our Cleon hath

One daughter, and a full grown wench

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 weaved 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 th’ 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 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 does appear,

With Leonine, a murderer.

Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do’t:

’Tis 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.

I will do’t; but yet she is a goodly creature.

The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here she comes weeping for

her only mistress’ death. Thou art resolved?

I am resolved.

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. Ay 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.

How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?

How chance my daughter is not with you?

Do not consume your blood with sorrowing;

Have you a nurse of me? Lord, how your favour’s

Changed 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.

No, I pray you;

I’ll not bereave you of your servant.

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.

Well, I will go;

But yet I have no desire to it.

Come, come, I know ’tis good for you.

Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least:

Remember what I have said.

I warrant you, madam.

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.

My thanks, sweet madam.

Is this wind westerly that blows?

South-west.

When I was born the wind was north.

Was’t so?

My father, as nurse said, did never fear,

But cried ‘Good seamen!’ to the sailors,

Galling his kingly hands, haling ropes;

And clasping to the mast, endured a sea

That almost burst the deck.

When was this?

When I was born:

Never was waves nor wind more violent;

And from the ladder tackle washes off

A canvas-climber. ‘Ha!’ says one, ‘wolt out?’

And with a dropping industry they skip

From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and

The master calls and trebles their confusion.

Come, say your prayers.

What mean you?

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.

Why will you kill me?

To satisfy my lady.

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 any profit,

Or my life imply her any danger?

My commission

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

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,

And save poor me, the weaker.

I am sworn,

And will dispatch.

Hold, villain!

A prize! a prize!

Half part, mates, half part,

Come, let’s have her aboard suddenly.

These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes;

And they have seized Marina. Let her go:

There’s no hope she will return. I’ll swear she’s dead

And thrown into the sea. But I’ll see further:

Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her,

Not carry her aboard. If she remain,

Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain.