[Marina sings.]
LYSIMACHUS.
Mark’d he your music?
MARINA.
No, nor look’d on us.
LYSIMACHUS.
See, she will speak to him.
MARINA.
Hail, sir! My lord, lend ear.
PERICLES.
Hum, ha!
MARINA.
I am a maid,
My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,
But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d.
Though wayward Fortune did malign my state,
My derivation was from ancestors
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings:
But time hath rooted out my parentage,
And to the world and awkward casualties
Bound me in servitude.
[Aside.] I will desist;
But there is something glows upon my cheek,
And whispers in mine ear ‘Go not till he speak.’
PERICLES.
My fortunes—parentage—good parentage—
To equal mine!—was it not thus? what say you?
MARINA.
I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage,
You would not do me violence.
PERICLES.
I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.
You are like something that—what country-woman?
Here of these shores?