Ephesus. A Room in CERIMON'S House. |
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Enter CERIMON, a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwracked. |
Cer. Philemon, ho! |
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Enter PHILEMON. |
Phil. Doth my lord call? |
Cer. Get fire and meat for these poor men; |
'T has been a turbulent and stormy night. |
Ser. I have been in many; but such a night as this |
Till now I ne'er endur'd. |
Cer. Your master will be dead ere you return; |
There's nothing can be minister'd to nature |
That can recover him. [To PHILEMON.] Give this to the 'pothecary, |
And tell me how it works. [Exeunt all except CERIMON. |
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Enter two Gentlemen. |
First Gent. Good morrow, sir. |
Sec. Gent. Good morrow to your lordship. |
Cer. Gentlemen, |
Why do you stir so early? |
First Gent. Sir, |
Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, |
Shook as the earth did quake; |
The very principals did seem to rend, |
And all to topple. Pure surprise and fear |
Made me to quit the house. |
Sec. Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so early; |
'Tis not our husbandry. |
Cer. O! you say well. |
First Gent. But I much marvel that your lordship, having |
Rich tire about you, should at these early hours |
Shake off the golden slumber of repose. |
'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. |
Sec. Gent. Your honour has through Ephesus pour'd forth |
Your charity, and hundreds call themselves |
Your creatures, who by you have been restor'd: |
And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even |
Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon |
Such strong renown as time shall ne'er decay. |
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Enter two Servants, with a chest. |
First Serv. So; lift there. |
Cer. What is that? |
First Serv. Sir, even now |
Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest: |
'Tis of some wrack. |
Cer. Set it down; let's look upon 't. |
Sec. 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. |
Sec. Gent. 'Tis so, my lord. |
Cer. How close 'tis caulk'd and bitumed! |
Did the sea cast it up? |
First Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, |
As toss'd it upon shore. |
Cer. Come, wrench it open. |
Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. |
Sec. Gent. A delicate odour. |
Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it. |
O you most potent gods! what's here? a corse! |
First Gent. Most strange! |
Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state; balm'd and entreasur'd |
With full bags of spices! A passport too! |
Apollo, perfect me i' the characters! |
Here I give to understand, |
If e'er this coffin drive a-land, |
I, King Pericles, have lost |
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. |
Sec. 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. [Exit Second Servant. |
Death may usurp on nature many hours, |
And yet the fire of life kindle again |
The overpress'd spirits. I heard |
Of an Egyptian, that had nine hours lien dead, |
Who was by good appliances recovered. |
|
Re-enter Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire. |
Well said, well said; the fire and cloths. |
The rough and woeful music that we have, |
Cause it to sound, beseech you. |
The viol once more;—how thou stirr'st, thou block! |
The music there! I pray you, give her air. |
Gentlemen, |
This queen will live; nature awakes, a warmth |
Breathes out of her; she hath not been entranc'd |
Above five hours. See! how she 'gins to blow |
Into life's flower again. |
First Gent. The heavens |
Through you increase our wonder and set up |
Your fame for ever. |
Cer. She is alive! behold, |
Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels |
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. |
Thai. O dear Diana! |
Where am I? Where's my lord? What world is this? |
Sec. Gent. Is not this strange? |
First Gent. Most rare. |
Cer. 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 Æsculapius guide us! [Exeunt, carrying THAISA away. |
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