You are of our chamber, and our mind partakes
Her private actions to your secrecy;
And for your faithfulness we will advance you.
Thaliard, behold, here's poison, and here's gold;
We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him:
It fits thee not to ask the reason why,
Because we Bid it. Say, is it done?
[Enter a Messenger.]
Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste.
My lord, prlnce Pericles is fled.
Wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot
From a well-experienced archer hits the mark
His eye doth level at, so thou ne'er return
Unless thou say 'Prince Pericles is dead.'
If I can get him within my pistol's length,
I'll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness.
Pericles be dead,
My heart can lend no succour to my head.