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.