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ACT IV.

Enter GOWER.

Gow. Imagine Pericles at Tyre, Welcom'd, to his own desire. His woful queen leave at Ephess, To Dian there a votaress. Now to Marina bend your mind, Whom our fast-growing scene must find At Tharsus, and by Cleon train'd In musick, 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 fight; 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 28 With fingers, long, small, white as milk; Or when she would with sharp neeld wound es The cambrick, which she made more sound

By hurting it; or 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 30: 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,
Lychcrida, 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 rhyme;
Which never could I so convey,
Unless your thoughts went on my way.-
Dionyza does appear,
With Leonine, a murderer.

[Exit.

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SCENE I.
C
Tharsus. An open place near the sea-shore. ,

Enter DIONYZA and LEONINE.
Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to

do it: 'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known. Thou canst not do a thing i'the world so soon, To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, Which is but cold, inflame love in thy bosom, Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be A soldier to thy purpose.

Leon. I'll do't; but yet she is a goodly creature.
Dion. The fitter then the gods should have her.

Here
Weeping she comes for her old nurse's death,
Thou art resolv'd?
Leon.

I am resolv'd.

Enter MARINA, with a basket of powers. Mar. No, no, I will rob Tellus of her weed, To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall, as a chaplet, hang upon thy grave, While summer days do last. Ah me! poor maid, Born in a tempest, when my mother died,

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