- cid
- bafkreihpeco37zvdeynhn6rgdk4tinswvln4w3iudmqa7xuwhmljj5uzna
- content_type
- image/jpeg
- filename
- 06_poems_pericles_facsimiles_1905_oxford_page_0627.jpg
- height
- 2400
- key
- pdf-page-1769752655565-do7ka89mo88
- ocr_model
- mistral-ocr-latest
- page_number
- 627
- size
- 320168
- text
- I. i. 127—159
# The Play of
Where now you both a Father and a Sonne,
By your untimely claspings with your Child,
(Which pleasures fittes a husband, not a father)
And shee an eater of her Mothers flesh,
By the defiling of her Parents bed,
And both like Serpents are; who though they feed
On sweetest Flowers, yet they Poyson breed.
Antioch farewell, for Wifedome fees those meat,
Blush not in actions blacker then the night,
Will shew no course to keepe them from the light:
One finne (I know) another doth provoke;
Murther’s as neere to Lust, as Flame to Smoake:
Poyson and Treason are the hands of Sinne,
I, and the targets to put off the shame,
Then least my life be crept, to keepe you cleare,
By flight, lie shun the danger which I feare.
Exit.
## Enter Antiochus.
Ant. He hath found the meaning,
For which we meane to haue his head:
He must not liue to trumpet foorth my infamie,
Nor tell the world Antiochus doth finne
In such a loathed manner:
And therefore instantly this Prince must die,
For by his fall, my honour must keepe hie.
Who attends us there?
## Enter Thailand.
Thai. Doth your highnes call?
Ant. Thailand, you are of our Chamber, Thailand,
And our mindepertakes her priuat actions,
To your secrecie; and for your faythfulnes,
We will aduounce you, Thailand:
Behold, heere’s Poyson, and heere’s Gold:
Wee hate the Prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him,
It fittes thee not to ask thee reason why?
Because we bid it: say, is it done?
Thai. My Lord, us done.
Enter
- text_extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:21:28.278Z
- text_extracted_by
- ocr-service
- text_has_content
- true
- text_images_count
- 0
- text_source
- ocr
- uploaded
- true
- width
- 1750