I am a maid, My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes

Marina
I am a maid,
My lord, that ne'er before invited eyes,
But have been gaz'd on like a comet. She speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endur'd 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're like something that—What country-woman?
Here of these shores?
Marina
No, nor of any shores,
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am
No other than I appear.
Pericles
I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.
My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one
My daughter might have been. My queen's square brows,
Her stature to an inch, as wand-like straight,
As silver-voic'd, her eyes as jewel-like
And cas'd as richly, in pace another Juno;
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,
The more she gives them speech.