Enter GOWER. |
Imagine Pericles arriv'd at Tyre, |
Welcom'd 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, 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 hath our Cleon |
One daughter, and a wench full grown, |
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 weav'd the sleided silk |
With fingers, long, small, white as milk, |
Or when she would with sharp neeld wound |
The cambric, which she made more sound |
By hurting it; when to the 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 |
With the dove of Paphos might 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 rime; |
Which never could I so convey, |
Unless your thoughts went on my way. |
Dionyza doth appear, |
With Leonine, a murderer. [Exit. |
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