Thus time we waste, and long leagues make short;

Sail seas in cockles, have and wish but for’t;

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 Helicanus goes along. Behind

Is left to govern, if you bear in mind,

Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late

Advanced in time to great and high estate.

Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought

This king to Tarsus,—think his pilot thought;

So with his steerage shall your thoughts go on,—

To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone.

Like motes and shadows see them move awhile;

Your ears unto your eyes I’ll reconcile.

See how belief may suffer by foul show;

This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe;

And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d,

With sighs shot through; and biggest tears o’ershower’d,

Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears

Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs:

He puts on sackcloth, and to sea he bears

A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,

And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit

The epitaph is for Marina writ

By wicked Dionyza.

_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 earth:

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 villany

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 scene must play

His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day

In her unholy service. Patience, then,

And think you now are all in Mytilene.