PERICLES.
Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!
Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly man
Is but a substance that must yield to you;
And I, as fits my nature, do obey you:
Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,
Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath
Nothing to think on but ensuing death:
Let it suffice the greatness of your powers
To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;
And having thrown him from your watery grave,
Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave.
Enter three Fishermen.
FIRST FISHERMAN.
What, ho, Pilch!
SECOND FISHERMAN.
Ha, come and bring away the nets!
FIRST FISHERMAN.
What, Patch-breech, I say!
THIRD FISHERMAN.
What say you, master?
FIRST FISHERMAN.
Look how thou stirrest now! Come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a wanion.
THIRD FISHERMAN.
Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now.
FIRST FISHERMAN.
Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves.
THIRD FISHERMAN.
Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? They say they’re half fish, half flesh: a plague on them, they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea.