Queen.
Thy oath remember, thou hast sworn to do it,
'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.
Kind Nature hath been bounteous to thy youth:
Thy graceful person, language and address,
Are almost peerless, and thy steril fortune
Our favour shall improve. But let not conscience,
Which none who hope to rise in courts regard,
Disarm your hand, nor her bewitching eyes
Inflame your amorous bosom.

Leon.
I have promis'd,
And will perform. Yet she's a goodly creature.

Q.
The fitter for the Gods. I, while she lives,
Am not a Queen. This poor, this friendless daughter
Of Pericles, the wretched Prince of Tyre,
Whom my fond Parents from compassion foster'd,
Is more belov'd, more reverenc'd in Tharsus
Than I their Sov'reign. And when foreign Princes,
Drawn by the fame of my high rank and beauty,
As suitors, throng my court; let her appear

(Such is the force of her detested charms)
And I am streight neglected; and their vows
And adorations all transferr'd to her.
Here she comes, weeping for my mother's death:
She had good cause to love her. Let not pity,
Which women have cast off, defeat your purpose:
There's nothing thou can'st do, live e'er so long,
Shall yield thee so much profit.

Leon.
I'm determin'd. Enter Marina with a wreath of flowers.

Mar.
No: I will rob gay Tellus of her weed,
To strew thy grave with flowers. The yellows, blues,
The purple violets and marygolds
Shall, as a carpet, hang upon thy tomb,
While summer days do last. Ah me, poor maid!
Born in a tempest when my mother dy'd,
And now I mourn a second mother's loss.
This world, to me, is like a lasting storm,
That swallows, piece by piece, the merchant's wealth,
And in the end himself.

Q.
Why, sweet Marina,
Will you consume your youth in fruitless grief,
And choose to dwell 'midst tombs and dreary graves?
You harm your self, and profit not the dead.
Give me that wreath, who have most cause to mourn,
And let your heart take comfort. I will leave you
To the sweet conversation of this Lord,
Who has the art of dissipating sadness.

Mar.
Pray, let me not bereave you of his service:
I choose to be alone.

Q.
You know I love you
With more than foreign heart, and will not see

The beauty marr'd that fame reports so perfect.
Shou'd your good father come at length to seek you,
And find his hopes, and all report so blasted,
He may repent the breadth of his great voyage,
And blame our want of care.

Mar.
You may command,
But I have no desire to tarry here.

Q.
Once more be chearful, and preserve that form
That wins from all competitors the hearts
Of young and old. 'Tis no new thing for me
To walk alone, while you are well attended.

Mar.
I hope you're not offended.

Q.
Nothing less.
Farewell, sweet Lady. Sir, you will remember—

Leon.
Fear not, she ne'er shall vex your quiet more. (Exit Queen.)

Mar.
I know no cause, yet think the gentle Queen
Went hence in some displeasure. Is she well?
What are your thoughts?

Leon.
That she's nor well, nor gentle.

Mar.
I'm sorry for't. Is the wind westerly?

Leon.
South-west.

Mar.
When I was born the wind was north.

Leon.
The wind was north you say. I should not hear her,
Lest I relent. The Queen's enamour'd of me,
She prais'd my blooming youth, and good proportion
And shall I lose a crown for foolish pity?

Mar.
My Father, as Lychorida hath told me,
(My Nurse that's dead) did never fear: but then,
Galling his kingly hands with haling ropes,
And chearing the faint Sailors with his voice,

Endur'd a sea, that almost burst the deck.

Leon.
And when was this?

Mar.
I said when I was born.
Never were waves nor winds more violent.
This tempest, and my birth, kill'd my poor Mother,
I was preserv'd, and left an Infant here.
Now do you think I e'er shall see my Father?

Leon.
Never. Come, say your prayers.

Mar.
What do you mean?

Leon.
If you require a little space for pray'r,
That I'll allow you; pray, but be not tedious:
The Gods are quick of ear, and I'm in haste.

Mar.
Why will you kill me, Sir?

Leon.
T' obey the Queen.

Mar.
Why will she have me kill'd? I never wrong'd her.
In all my life I never spake bad word,
Nor did ill turn to any living creature:
By chance I once trod on a simple worm,
But I wept for it. How have I offended?

Leon.
I'm not to reason of the deed, but do it.

Mar.
You will not do't for all the world, I hope.
You are well favour'd, and your looks bespeak
A very gentle heart. I saw you lately,
When you caught hurt in parting two that fought:
Good sooth, it shew'd well in you: Do so now:
If the Queen seeks my life, come you between,
And save poor me the weaker.

Leon.
I have sworn,
And will dispatch.

Mar.
Yet hear me speak once more. (Kneeling.
O do not kill me, though I know no cause

Why I should wish to live who ne'er knew joy,
Or fear to die who ever fear'd the Gods;
But 'tis, perhaps, the property of youth
To doat on its new being, and depend,
Howe'er deprest, on pleasures in reversion.
You are but young your self: then, as you hope
To prove the fancy'd bliss of years to come,
Spare me, O spare me now.

Leon.
You plead in vain,
Commit your soul to heaven.

Mar.
Can you speak thus!
O can you have compassion for my soul;
Yet, at the instant, by a cruel deed,
That Heaven and Earth must hate, destroy your own? Enter Pirate, and interposes.

1 Pir.
Hold villain. Fear not, fair one, I'll defend thee.

Leon.
Slave, how doth her defence belong to you?
Who, and what are you?

1 Pir.

A man, fool. Alexander the Great was no more. You are a poltron, a coward, and a rascal, to draw cold iron on a woman.

Leon.
I want not courage, base intruding villain,
To scourge thy insolence. (fight.

Mar.
You gracious Gods!
Must I behold, and be the cause of murder? Enter second, and then third Pirate.

2 Pir.
A prize! A prize!

3 Pir.
Half part, Mate, half part.

1 Pir.
What, are they quarrelling about my booty!
Hold, Sir.

Leon.
With all my heart.
If you increase so fast, 'tis time to fly.
I know them now for Pirates. (Exit Leonine.

1 Pir.

Hands off. I found her first.

2 Pir.

That's no claim amongst us.

3 Pir.

No, none at all. Every man is to have his share of all the prizes we take.

1 Pir.

Nay, if you come to that, she belongs to the whole ship's company.

2 Pir.

Who denies that? But I will not quit my part in her to the Captain himself: sink me if I do.

3 Pir.

Nor I, by Neptune.

1 Pir.

This is no place to dispute in. We shall have the city rise upon us: therefore we must have her aboard suddenly.

Omnes.

Ay; bear a hand, bear a hand.

1 Pir.

Come, sweet Lady.

2 Pir.

None shall hurt you.

3 Pir.

We'll lose our lives before we'll see you wrong'd.

Mar.
You sacred powers! who rule the rudest hearts,
Protect me whilst among these lawless Men
From loath'd pollution, violence and shame;
And bold blasphemers, who shall hear the wonder,
Shall own you are, and just.

1 Pir.

A rare prize, if a man cou'd have her to himself. A pox of all ill fortune, say I.

Leon.
These Pirates serve the daring ruffian Valdes,
A desperate crew they are. There is no fear
Marina will return. They'll, doubtless, have
Their pleasure of her first; and then, perhaps,

According to a custom long us'd by 'em,
Sell her where she will ne'er be heard of more:
Then I may take the merit of her death,
And claim the whole reward. It shall be so.
I'll swear to the fond Queen, I have dispatch'd
And thrown her in the sea.—A rare device!—
These rogues have sav'd me from a hellish deed,
And a fair wind attend them. (Exit Leonine. SCENE II. A House in Ephesus. Enter Bawd and Bolt.

Bawd.

Sad times, Bolt.

Bolt.

Ay, very sad times, Mistress.

Bawd.

This new order, so much talk'd of, for suppressing publick lewdness, will be the ruin of us. All our business will fall into private hands. I must shut up my doors, I must quit my house, unless we can find some way to evade it.

Bolt.

Whip Bawds and Panders! fine doings! rare Magistrates! Let 'em whip their own lubberly Sons and dough-bak'd Daughters for their idleness, and not punish people for their industry and service to the publick.

Bawd.

Nay, nay, if they will turn iniquity out of the high-ways, they must expect to find it in their families. Let them keep their Wives and Daughters honest if they can. The necessities of Gentlemen must be supply'd.

Bolt.

There are abundance of foreign Merchants and Travellers here in Ephesus, that us'd to be our customers.

Bawd.

And old Batchelors.

Bolt.

And younger Brothers.

Bawd.

And disconsolate Widowers.

Bolt.

And Husbands that have old Wives.

Bawd.

And Philosophers, Lawyers, and Soldiers that have none at all; and all these must be serv'd.

Bolt.

And will, while Women are to be had for money, love, or importunity.

Bawd.

Ay, let the Citizens, who spirited up this prosecution against our useful vocation, think of the consequence, and tremble.

Bolt.

Yet, after all, these threats may come to nothing. You have weather'd many such a storm, Mother Coupler.

Bawd.

Ay, Bolt, I have had my ups and my downs—no Woman more—But I will not be discourag'd, I will not neglect business for a rumour neither. The mart will fill the town, and we are but meanly furnish'd.

Bolt.

Never worse. Three poor wenches are all our store, and they can do no more than they can.

Bawd.

Thou say'st true. And those so stale, so sunk, and so diseas'd, that a strong wind would blow 'em all to pieces. I must have others, whatever they cost me.

Bolt.

Shall I search the slave market?

Bawd.

Those we buy there, are mostly half worn out before we have them. There was the little Transilvanian you bought last, did not live above three months, and never brought in half the money she cost.

Bolt.

Ay, she was quickly made meat for worms. But there are losses in all trades, and ours not being honest—

Bawd.

Marry come up; I pray, what trades are honest, as they are us'd? We are no worse than others.