‘Our heir-apparent is a king!

Who dreamt, who thought of such a thing?’

Brief he must hence depart to Tyre;

His queen with child makes her desire—

Which who shall cross?—along to go.

Omit we all their dole and woe.

Lychorida her nurse she takes,

And so to sea. Their vessel shakes

On Neptune’s billow. Half the flood

Hath their keel cut, but fortune’s mood

Varies again. The grizzled north

Disgorges such a tempest forth

That as a duck for life that dives,

So up and down the poor ship drives.

The lady shrieks, and well-a-near

Does fall in travail with her fear,

And what ensues in this fell storm

Shall for itself itself perform;

I nill relate; action may

Conveniently the rest convey,

Which might not what by me is told.

In your imagination hold

This stage the ship, upon whose deck

The sea-tossed Pericles appears to speke. Exit

Sc. 11 ⌈Thunder and lightning.⌉ Enter Pericles a-shipboard

PERICLES

The god of this great vast rebuke these surges

Which wash both heav’n and hell; and thou that hast

Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,

Having called them from the deep. O still

Thy deaf‘ning dreadful thunders, gently quench

Thy nimble sulph’rous flashes.—O, ho, Lychorida!

How does my queen?—Thou stormest venomously.

Wilt thou spit all thyself The seaman’s whistle

Is as a whisper in the ears of death,

Unheard.—Lychorida!—Lucina, O!

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity

Aboard our dancing boat, make swift the pangs

Of my queen’s travails!—Now, Lychorida.

Enter Lychorida with an infant

LYCHORIDA

Here is a thing too young for such a place,

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I

Am like to do. Take in your arms this piece

Of your dead queen.

PERICLES How, how, Lychorida?

LYCHORIDA

Patience, good sir, do not assist the storm.

Here’s all that is left living of your queen,

A little daughter. For the sake of it

Be manly, and take comfort.

PERICLES O you gods!

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,

And snatch them straight away? We here below

Recall not what we give, and therein may

Use honour with you.

LYCHORIDA Patience, good sir,

E’en for this charge.

She gives him the infant. ⌈Pericles, looking mournfully upon it, shakes his head, and weeps⌉

PERICLES Now mild may be thy life,

For a more blust‘rous birth had never babe;

Quiet and gentle thy conditions, for

Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world

That e’er was prince’s child; happy what follows.

Thou hast as chiding a nativity

As fire, air, water, earth, and heav’n can make

To herald thee from th’ womb. Poor inch of nature,

Ev’n at the first thy loss is more than can

Thy partage quit with all thou canst find here.

Now the good gods throw their best eyes upon’t.

Enter ⌈the Master⌉ and a Sailor

⌈MASTER⌉ What, courage, sir! God save you.

PERICLES

Courage enough, I do not fear the flaw;

It hath done to me its worst. Yet for the love

Of this poor infant, this fresh new seafarer,

I would it would be quiet.

⌈MASTER⌉ (calling) Slack the bow-lines, there.—Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself.

SAILOR But searoom, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not.

⌈MASTER⌉ (to Pericles) Sir, your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead.

PERICLES

That’s but your superstition.

⌈MASTER⌉ Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still observed, and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield ’er, for she must overboard straight.

PERICLES

As you think meet. Most wretched queen!

LYCHORIDA Here she lies, sir.

She ⌈draws the curtains and discovers⌉ the body of Thaisa in a ⌈bed. Pericles gives Lychorida the infant⌉

PERICLES (to Thaisa)

A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear,

No light, no fire. Th‘unfriendly elements

Forgot thee utterly, nor have I time

To give thee hallowed to thy grave, but straight

Must cast thee, scarcely coffined, in the ooze,

Where, for a monument upon thy bones

And aye-remaining lamps, the belching whale

And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse,

Lying with simple shetts.—O Lychorida,

Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper,

My casket and my jewels, and bid Nicander

Bring me the satin coffer. Lay the babe

Upon the pillow. Hie thee whiles I say

A priestly farewell to her. Suddenly, woman.

Exit Lychorida

⌈SAILOR⌉ Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches caulked and bitumed ready.

PERICLES

I thank thee. ⌈To the Master⌉ Mariner, say, what coast is this?

⌈MASTER⌉

We are near Tarsus.

PERICLES

Thither, gentle mariner,

Alter thy course from Tyre. When canst thou reach it? ⌈MASTER⌉

By break of day, if the wind cease.

PERICLES

Make for Tarsus.

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe

Cannot hold out to Tyrus. There I’ll leave it