Cleon speaks in elaborate, image-heavy verse that makes even misery sound rhetorical — he is a governor who processes the world through formal speech. Watch for how his grandiloquence remains even when he's describing mass starvation, which gives his scenes an almost grotesque quality.
My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,
And by relating tales of others’ griefs,
See if ’twill teach us to forget our own?
My Dionyza, should we rest here? And through telling stories of other people's grief, learn to forget our own?
Dionyza, what if we just sit for a minute and swap sad stories? Maybe comparing misery will help us stop thinking about ours.
let's rest. let's tell sad stories. maybe that helps.
Dionyza here is measured, supportive — a loyal partner to Cleon in crisis. Watch for the contrast with how she speaks later in Act 4, when her real nature emerges: calculating, cold, and completely willing to destroy an innocent girl to advance her own daughter.
That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it;
For who digs hills because they do aspire
Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.
O my distressed lord, even such our griefs are;
Here they’re but felt, and seen with mischief’s eyes,
But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise.
That would be like blowing on a fire hoping to put it out. Whoever tries to forget sorrow by examining sorrow just makes it worse. Our grief is like hills—the more you try to flatten them, the higher the replacement grows. My sad lord, our sorrows work exactly this way. Here we see them clearly, and misery only makes us see them more sharply.
That's like blowing on a fire to make it go out. It doesn't work. Stirring up old grief just makes new grief. Our pain's like a mountain—knock it down, and two grow back. We see it everywhere we look.
comparing sadness just makes it worse. try to erase one mountain and two grow in its place.
O Dionyza,
Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,
Or can conceal his hunger till he famish?
Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep
Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep,
Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder;
That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want,
They may awake their helps to comfort them.
I’ll then discourse our woes, felt several years,
And wanting breath to speak, help me with tears.
Dionyza, who starves from hunger but won't speak it aloud? Who hides their starvation until they actually perish? Our voices and our sorrows cry out loudly into the air. Our eyes weep, and our tongues must find breath to make the crying louder. If heaven sleeps while its creatures starve, they might wake up to save us. So I will tell of the sorrows we've felt for years. And if my voice fails, tears will help me speak.
Dionyza—when a person is starving, they don't shut up about it. Why should we hide what's killing us? Our tears and our voices fill this place. If heaven's sleeping, maybe noise will wake it up. Someone has to tell the full horror of what's happened here. If I can't find words, tears will do the work.
we have to say it. we're dying. if heaven is asleep, our screaming might wake it.
I’ll do my best, sir.
I'll do my best, my lord.
I'll try, my lord.
ok.
This Tarsus, o’er which I have the government,
A city on whom plenty held full hand,
For riches strew’d herself even in the streets;
Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d the clouds,
And strangers ne’er beheld but wonder’d at;
Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d,
Like one another’s glass to trim them by:
Their tables were stored full to glad the sight,
And not so much to feed on as delight;
All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great,
The name of help grew odious to repeat.
This Tarsus, which I govern, was a city where plenty overflowed. Riches scattered themselves even in the streets. The towers reached so high they seemed to kiss the clouds, and strangers who saw it never stopped wondering. The men and women dressed so elegantly, using each other as mirrors to perfect their appearance. Tables brimmed with food, more for delight than need. Poverty was shameful, and pride ran so high that even speaking of 'help' sounded offensive.
This city I run—Tarsus—it used to be dripping with wealth. Gold in the streets. Towers so tall they touched the sky. People came just to gawk. Everyone dressed perfectly, obsessed with how they looked. Food everywhere—not to eat, to show off. The only shameful thing was being poor. Nobody even said the word 'help.'
tarsus was rich. so incredibly rich. towers to the clouds. everyone beautiful and proud. poverty was a curse word.
O, ’tis too true.
Oh yes, all of that is true.
All of it. Every word.
yes.
But see what heaven can do! By this our change,
These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air,
Were all too little to content and please,
Although they gave their creatures in abundance,
As houses are defiled for want of use,
They are now starved for want of exercise:
Those palates who, not yet two summers younger,
Must have inventions to delight the taste,
Would now be glad of bread and beg for it:
Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes,
Thought nought too curious, are ready now
To eat those little darlings whom they loved.
So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and wife
Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life:
Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping;
Here many sink, yet those which see them fall
Have scarce strength left to give them burial.
Is not this true?
But look at what heaven can do with punishment! Now, these people who not two summers ago needed the whole world to satisfy them—earth, sea, and air all together weren't enough—those same people are now starved from disuse of their bodies. Their palates, which just months ago needed invented dishes to delight them, now beg for bread. Mothers who thought nothing was too precious for their children now look at those same children and see only hunger. Husbands and wives draw lots to see who starves first so the other can eat longer. Here a lord weeps, there a lady falls. And those who see them die barely have strength to bury them. Is this not true?
Look what happened. Two years ago, these people had everything and wanted more. Now they're starving from doing nothing but sit and suffer. The ones who ate fancy food now beg for bread. Mothers are looking at their babies wondering which one to—to give up so the others eat. Couples are literally drawing lots to decide who dies first so someone survives. Bodies piling up, and people too weak to bury them. Is that not what you see?
everything reversed. the rich became poor overnight. mothers draw lots to choose which child to lose. that's the truth we live now.
Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it.
Our hollow cheeks and sunken eyes prove it all.
Look at our faces. That's all the proof you need.
our faces say it.
The famine speech in this scene is among the most graphic descriptions of mass suffering in the Shakespearean corpus. Mothers contemplating eating their babies, husbands drawing lots for who dies first — this is not decorative. England in Shakespeare's time experienced periodic famines; the 1590s saw severe harvest failures across Europe. An Elizabethan audience would have had direct or proximate experience of famine conditions. The speech functions as a vivid moral frame: it establishes exactly how desperate Tarsus is, so that Pericles's arrival with grain ships registers not as polite charity but as the difference between life and death. It also makes Dionyza's later betrayal of Marina — killing a girl out of jealousy — even more monstrous, since the very food that saved her own children came from Pericles.
O, let those cities that of plenty’s cup
And her prosperities so largely taste,
With their superflous riots, hear these tears!
The misery of Tarsus may be theirs.
Let those rich cities who gorge themselves on plenty and prosperity hear these tears! May the suffering of Tarsus become theirs.
I want every fat, happy city in Greece to hear this. They should taste what we taste. Suffering should come to them too.
every rich city should feel this. every one. let them starve like we did.
Where’s the lord governor?
Where is the lord governor?
Governor, are you here?
governor?
Here.
Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in haste,
For comfort is too far for us to expect.
Here. Speak your sorrow quickly—we don't expect comfort anymore.
I'm here. Say whatever it is. Don't bother offering comfort. There isn't any left.
here. what is it? don't bother with comfort.
We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore,
A portly sail of ships make hitherward.
We've spotted a large fleet of ships approaching our shore.
There's a bunch of ships heading straight for us.
ships coming. lots of them.
I thought as much.
One sorrow never comes but brings an heir,
That may succeed as his inheritor;
And so in ours: some neighbouring nation,
Taking advantage of our misery,
That stuff’d the hollow vessels with their power,
To beat us down, the which are down already;
And make a conquest of unhappy me,
Whereas no glory’s got to overcome.
I thought as much. Sorrow never comes alone—it always brings company. Just when you think it's done, new sorrow arrives. So now I know some rival kingdom sees our weakness and sends soldiers to knock us down further—though we're already at the bottom. And there's no glory in conquering someone already defeated.
Figures. Bad luck doesn't come by itself. It brings friends. So now some neighbor sees we're weak and sends an army to crush what's already broken. There's nothing glorious about it, but they don't care.
one sorrow never travels alone. it brings heir after heir. we're already dead. they're coming to bury us.
That’s the least fear; for, by the semblance
Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace,
And come to us as favourers, not as foes.
Don't fear that. By the white flags they display, they come in peace, as friends not enemies.
Wait, look—those are white flags. They're coming as friends, not enemies.
those are white flags. they come in peace.
Thou speak’st like him’s untutor’d to repeat:
Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.
But bring they what they will and what they can,
What need we fear?
The ground’s the lowest, and we are half way there.
Go tell their general we attend him here,
To know for what he comes, and whence he comes,
And what he craves.
That's what someone who's never learned deception would say. But whoever shows the nicest face is often the most dangerous. Still, what difference does it make what they bring or what they can do? We're at the lowest point possible. Go tell their general I'm here and I wait to know why he comes, where from, and what he wants.
That's what someone naive would believe. The nicest smiles hide the sharpest knives. But honestly, what's it matter? We can't go lower. Go find their general, tell him I'm waiting. He can say what he wants.
fair faces hide sharp blades. but we're already at the bottom. tell them i'm waiting.
I go, my lord.
I'll go, my lord.
I'll go.
on it.
Pericles explicitly invokes the Trojan Horse to preemptively deny it: 'you might think our ships are filled with bloody violence — they're not, they're filled with corn.' This is a rare moment in the play where a character is exactly as honest as they claim to be. The world of Pericles is full of deceptive appearances — Antiochus's beautiful daughter hiding incest, Simonides's pretend rage in Act 2 hiding delight, Dionyza's fake monument to Marina. Against this constant backdrop of misleading surfaces, Pericles arriving with ships that mean exactly what they look like is quietly remarkable. It's his character in miniature: the man whose face and deeds match.
Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist;
If wars, we are unable to resist.
Peace is welcome if he brings peace. War is welcome too, since we can't resist it anyway.
If he comes in peace, great. If he comes to fight, we'll lose. Either way, nothing changes for us.
peace or war we can't win either way.
Lord governor, for so we hear you are,
Let not our ships and number of our men
Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes.
We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre,
And seen the desolation of your streets:
Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears,
But to relieve them of their heavy load;
And these our ships, you happily may think
Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within
With bloody veins, expecting overthrow,
Are stored with corn to make your needy bread,
And give them life whom hunger starved half dead.
Lord governor, or so we've been told you are—don't be alarmed by our ships and the number of our men. News of your suffering has reached even Tyre, and we've seen the emptiness of your streets. We don't come to add more sorrow to your tears, but to lighten the burden. These ships might look dangerous, like the Trojan horse filled with soldiers expecting to destroy you. But they're actually filled with grain to make bread for your starving people and give life to those whom hunger has nearly killed.
Governor—we heard you were in trouble all the way from Tyre. We saw what happened to your city. We're not here to make it worse. These ships look scary, I know, but they're full of food. Grain. Bread. Life for people who are dying of hunger.
we know tarsus is starving. we came to help. these ships are full of food. not soldiers.
The gods of Greece protect you!
And we’ll pray for you.
May the gods of Greece protect you! And we will pray for you.
The gods bless you. We're praying for you.
gods bless you. thank you.
Arise, I pray you, rise:
We do not look for reverence, but for love,
And harbourage for ourself, our ships and men.
Rise, please rise. We don't ask for reverence or worship. We want friendship. And a place for ourselves, our ships, and our crew to stay.
Get up. We don't need bowing. We just want to be friends. And we need somewhere to dock and rest.
get up. just want to be friends. and need a place to land.
The which when any shall not gratify,
Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought,
Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves,
The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils!
Till when,—the which I hope shall ne’er be seen,—
Your grace is welcome to our town and us.
Whoever fails to show gratitude for this kindness — whether it's me, my wife, our children, or anyone in our household — let them be cursed by heaven and earth. Until that never-happens day, your grace is welcome in our town.
I'm swearing this in front of everyone: if we ever forget this, if any of us treat you with ingratitude, let us be cursed — me, my wife, our kids, all of us. May the gods and men punish us forever. Until that day — and I pray it never comes — you're welcome here.
if we forget this, let us be cursed. me, my wife, our children. let heaven and earth destroy us. until that day, welcome.
Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here awhile,
Until our stars that frown lend us a smile.
We gratefully accept your welcome. Let us feast here while we wait for our fortunes to turn. The stars frown on us now, but hopefully they will soon smile again.
We're grateful. Let's eat and rest here while we wait for luck to change. These bad times won't last forever.
thank you. let us feast. these dark stars will smile again.
The Reckoning
After two scenes of threat and flight, the play pivots to generosity. Pericles arrives not as a conqueror but as a rescuer, and the transformation he enables — a starving city suddenly fed — is one of the play's most vivid images of what good governance actually means. Cleon and Dionyza are introduced as genuinely grateful, which makes what Dionyza will later do to Marina all the more horrifying. The scene plants a trust that will be catastrophically betrayed.
If this happened today…
A neighboring country has been hit by a devastating famine — the kind where governments are reduced to drafting lotteries to decide who dies first. Another nation sails in with cargo ships full of food, asking for nothing in return except shelter for the journey home. The devastated country's leader, who was rehearsing a speech accepting defeat, finds himself instead hosting a feast. He pledges eternal gratitude. He means it. He will not mean it in twenty years.