Pericles, Prince of Tyre · William Shakespeare
SCENE V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace.
Enter Simonides reading a letter at one door; the Knights meet him. FIRST KNIGHT. Good morrow to the good Simonides. SIMONIDES. Knights, from my daughter this I let you know, That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake A married life. Her reason to herself is only known, Which yet from her by no means can I get. SECOND KNIGHT. May we not get access to her, my lord? SIMONIDES. Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly tied Her to her chamber, that ’tis impossible. One twelve moons more she’ll wear Diana’s livery; This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d, And on her virgin honour will not break it. THIRD KNIGHT. Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves. [_Exeunt Knights._] SIMONIDES. So, they are well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s letter: She tells me here, she’ll wed the stranger knight, Or never more to view nor day nor light. ’Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine; I like that well: nay, how absolute she’s in’t, Not minding whether I dislike or no! Well, I do commend her choice; And will no longer have it be delay’d. Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it. Enter Pericles. PERICLES. All fortune to the good Simonides! SIMONIDES. To you as much. Sir, I am beholding to you For your sweet music this last night: I do Protest my ears were never better fed With such delightful pleasing harmony.
PERICLES. It is your grace’s pleasure to commend; Not my desert. SIMONIDES. Sir, you are music’s master. PERICLES. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord. SIMONIDES. Let me ask you one thing: What do you think of my daughter, sir? PERICLES. A most virtuous princess. SIMONIDES. And she is fair too, is she not? PERICLES. As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair. SIMONIDES. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you; Ay, so well, that you must be her master, And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it. PERICLES. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. SIMONIDES. She thinks not so; peruse this writing else. PERICLES. [_Aside._] What’s here? A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre! ’Tis the king’s subtlety to have my life. O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, A stranger and distressed gentleman, That never aim’d so high to love your daughter, But bent all offices to honour her. SIMONIDES. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, And thou art a villain. PERICLES. By the gods, I have not: Never did thought of mine levy offence; Nor never did my actions yet commence A deed might gain her love or your displeasure. SIMONIDES. Traitor, thou liest. PERICLES. Traitor? SIMONIDES. Ay, traitor. PERICLES. Even in his throat—unless it be the king— That calls me traitor, I return the lie.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.