- description
- # IV. 5–39
## Overview
This section, titled "IV. 5–39," is a textual segment extracted from a larger digital file. It spans lines 16979 to 17020 of its source and was extracted on January 30, 2026.
## Context
This section is part of the [Pericles](arke:01KG6S4DVCD2PVSZ8Y9W4E8T6A) chapter, which is itself contained within the [PDF Workflow Main Test 2026-01-30T00:26:53](arke:01KG6NWQ2H2K4PGG7H4ZHYCZ3Y) collection. It was extracted from the file [pdf-01KG6Q7Q25RHMFT3SJXPV18VFF.txt](arke:01KG6S2X2EBB305ENM00G16GWA). This section follows [III. iii. 32—IV. 1-4](arke:01KG6S5MKXGJQAYJM143G2AZTZ) and precedes [IV. 40-52—IV. i. 17](arke:01KG6S5MKXFK4EAVJ3N01GCRTR).
## Contents
The section contains dialogue and stage directions from a play, specifically "Pericles Prince of Tyre." The text includes a soliloquy or narrative passage discussing "Dioniza" and "Leonore" and their plot against "Marina." It then transitions into a scene featuring "Dioniza, with Leonore" discussing their murderous intent, followed by the entrance of "Marina with a Basket of flowers," who laments and expresses her desire to "rob Tellus of her weede to strow thy greene with Flowers." Key characters mentioned are Pericles, Dioniza, Leonore, and Marina.
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- 2026-01-30T06:26:43.923Z
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- description_title
- IV. 5–39
- end_line
- 17020
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:24:08.808Z
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- 16979
- text
- IV. 5–39
<!-- [Page 662](arke:01KG6QMY4HST8NAPMEA5QH681H) -->
# Pericles Prince of Tyre.
Might stand peerless by this slaughter,
The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,
*La barida* our nurse is dead,
And cursed *Dioniza* hath
The pregnant instrument of wrath.
Preft for this blox, the vuborne cuent,
I doe command to your content,
Onely I carried winged Time,
Poil one the lame feete of my rime,
Which neuer could I so conuey,
Unlese your thoughts went on my way,
*Dioniza* does appeare,
With *Leonore* a murtherer.
*Exit.*
# Enter Dioniza, with Leonore.
*Dion.* Thy oath remember, thou hast sworn to doot,
tis but a blowe which neuer shall bee known, thou canst not doe a thing in the worlde so soone to yeelde thee so much procte: let not conscience which is but cold, in flaming, thy loue bosome, enflame too nicelie, nor let pirtie which cuen wonen haue cast off, melt thee, but be a foulder to thy purpose.
*Leon.* I will doot, but yet she is a goodly creature.
*Dion.* The feter then the Gods should haue her.
Here she comes weeping for her onely Mistrese death,
Thou art refolude.
*Leon.* I am refolude.
# Enter Marina with a Basket of flowers.
*Maria.* No: I will rob Tellus of her weede to strow
thy greene with Flowers, the yellowes, blewcs, the purple
Violets, and Maripolds, shall as a Carpet hang vpon thy
graw, while Sommer dayes doth last: Aye me poore maid,
F 2
borne
- title
- IV. 5–39