Tarsus. A Room in CLEON'S House. |
| |
Enter CLEON and DIONYZA. |
| Dion. Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone? |
| Cle. O Dionyza! such a piece of slaughter |
| The sun and moon ne'er look'd upon. |
| Dion. I think |
| You'll turn a child again. |
| Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world, |
| I'd give it to undo the deed. O lady! |
| Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess |
| To equal any single crown o' the earth |
| I' the justice of compare. O villain Leonine! |
| Whom thou hast poison'd too; |
| If thou hadst drunk to him 't had been a kindness |
| Becoming well thy fact; what canst thou say |
| When noble Pericles shall demand his child? |
| Dion That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, |
| To foster it, nor ever to preserve. |
| She died at night; I'll say so. Who can cross it? |
| Unless you play the pious innocent, |
| And for an honest attribute cry out |
| 'She died by foul play.' |
| Cle. O! go to. Well, well, |
| Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods |
| Do like this worst. |
| Dion. Be one of those that think |
| The pretty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence, |
| And open this to Pericles. I do shame |
| To think of what a noble strain you are, |
| And of how coward a spirit. |
| Cle. To such proceeding |
| Who ever but his approbation added, |
| Though not his prime consent, he did not flow |
| From honourable sources. |
| Dion. Be it so, then; |
| Yet none does know but you how she came dead, |
| Nor none can know, Leonine being gone. |
| She did distain my child, and stood between |
| Her and her fortunes; none would look on her, |
| But cast their gazes on Marina's face, |
| Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin |
| Not worth the time of day. It pierc'd me thorough; |
| And though you call my course unnatural, |
| You not your child well loving, yet I find |
| It greets me as an enterprise of kindness |
| Perform'd to your sole daughter. |
| Cle. Heavens forgive it! |
| Dion. And as for Pericles, |
| What should he say? We wept after her hearse, |
| And even yet we mourn; her monument |
| Is almost finish'd, and her epitaphs |
| In glittering golden characters express |
| A general praise to her, and care in us |
| At whose expense 'tis done. |
| Cle. Thou art like the harpy, |
| Which, to betray, dost with thine angel's face, |
| Seize with thine eagle's talons. |
| Dion. You are like one that superstitiously |
| Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies; |
| But yet I know you'll do as I advise. [Exeunt. |
Design © 1995-2007 ZeFLIP.com All rights reserved.