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  • Title: Pericles, Prince of Tyre (Quarto)
  • Editor: Tom Bishop

    • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Tom Bishop
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Pericles, Prince of Tyre (Quarto)

    Gower. Thus time we waste, & long leagues make short,
    Saile seas in Cockles, haue and wish but fort,
    Making to take our imagination,
    1720From bourne to bourne, region to region,
    By you being pardoned we commit no crime,
    To vse one language, in each seuerall clime,
    Where our sceanes seemes to liue,
    I doe beseech you
    1725To learne of me who stand with gappes
    To teach you.
    The stages of our storie Pericles
    Is now againe thwarting thy wayward seas,
    Attended on by many a Lord and Knight,
    1730To see his daughter all his liues delight.
    Old Helicanus goes along behind,
    Is left to gouerne it, you beare in mind.
    Old Escenes, whom Hellicanus late
    Aduancde in time to great and hie estate.
    1735Well sayling ships, and bounteous winds
    Haue brought
    This king to Tharsus, thinke this Pilat thought
    So with his sterage, shall your thoughts grone
    To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone
    1740Like moats and shadowes, see them
    Moue a while,
    Your eares vnto your eyes Ile reconcile.
    Enter Pericles at one doore, with all his trayne, Cleon and Dio-
    niza at the other. Cleon shewes Pericles the tombe, whereat Pe-
    1745ricles makes lamentation, puts on sacke-cloth, and in a mighty
    passion departs.
    Gowr. See how beleefe may suffer by fowle showe,
    This borrowed passion stands for true olde woe:
    And Pericles in sorrowe all deuour'd,
    1750With sighes shot through, and biggest teares ore-showr'd.
    Leaues Tharsus, and againe imbarques, hee sweares
    Neuer to wash his face, nor cut his hayres:
    Hee put on sack-cloth, and to Sea he beares,
    A Tempest which his mortall vessell teares.
    1755And yet hee rydes it out, Nowe please you wit:
    The Epitaph is for Marina writ, by wicked Dioniza.
    The fairest, sweetest and best lyes heere,
    Who withered in her spring of yeare:
    She was of Tyrus the Kings daughter,
    1760On whom fowle death hath made this slaughter.
    Marina was shee call'd, and at her byrth,
    Thetis being prowd, swallowed some part ath'earth:
    Therefore the earth fearing to be ore-flowed,
    Hath Thetis byrth-childe on the heauens bestowed.
    1765Wherefore she does and sweares sheele neuer stint,
    Make raging Battery vpon shores of flint.
    No vizor does become blacke villanie,
    So well as soft and tender flatterie:
    Let Pericles beleeue his daughter's dead,
    1770And beare his courses to be ordered;
    By Lady Fortune, while our Steare must play,
    His daughters woe and heauie welladay.
    In her vnholie seruice: Patience then,
    And thinke you now are all in Mittelin.
    1775 Exit.
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