_The fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here, Who wither’d in her spring of year. She was of Tyrus the King’s daughter, On whom foul death hath made this slaughter; Marina was she call’d; and at her birth, Thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part o’ the earth: Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow’d, Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow’d: Wherefore she does, and swears she’ll never stint, Make raging battery upon shores of flint._ No visor does become black villany So well as soft and tender flattery. Let Pericles believe his daughter’s dead, And bear his courses to be ordered By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day In her unholy service. Patience, then, And think you now are all in Mytilene. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel. Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Did you ever hear the like? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy houses: shall’s go hear the vestals sing? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll do anything now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. A room in the brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult. PANDAR. Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here. BAWD. Fie, fie upon her! She’s able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her. BOULT. Faith, I must ravish her, or she’ll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests. PANDAR. Now, the pox upon her green sickness for me! BAWD. Faith, there’s no way to be rid on’t but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised. BOULT. We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers. Enter Lysimachus. LYSIMACHUS. How now! How a dozen of virginities? BAWD. Now, the gods to bless your honour! BOULT. I am glad to see your honour in good health. LYSIMACHUS. You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now? Wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon? BAWD. We have here one, sir, if she would—but there never came her like in Mytilene. LYSIMACHUS. If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say. BAWD. Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough. LYSIMACHUS. Well, call forth, call forth. BOULT. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but—