The Second Gentleman appears twice in Pericles, each time as a representative of ordinary human wonder in the face of extraordinary grace. He is not a character of consequence or power, but rather a pair of eyes through which we, the audience, observe the play’s central mystery: that knowledge and compassion, working together, can restore what seems irretrievably lost. His small role carries weight precisely because he is small—he stands for us, the astonished witnesses.
In Act 3, Scene 2, he is present in Cerimon’s house when a chest washes ashore containing the apparently dead body of Thaisa. The Second Gentleman’s role is to marvel, to confirm what others see, and to articulate the impossible made possible. When Cerimon applies his learning—his knowledge of medicine, music, and natural philosophy—to revive Thaisa, the Second Gentleman’s words credit the moment: “Most rare.” He does not question; he observes and honors. His brevity is his strength. He is there to affirm that this is not magic but something deeper: the marriage of human knowledge and divine will, working through a man of genuine charity.
Later, in Act 4, Scene 5, the Second Gentleman reappears on the streets of Mytilene, having just come from the brothel where Marina has transformed the atmosphere through sheer moral force. He and the First Gentleman have encountered something that has changed them fundamentally. They speak of leaving behind the old ways of lust, of wanting to hear virgins sing instead. Marina’s presence—her refusal to be commodified, her eloquence, her virtue maintained in the most degrading circumstances—has moved them to reformation. The Second Gentleman becomes a living proof that virtue is not powerless; it radiates outward and touches even the hardest hearts. His final words are understated but final: “I’m done with the old ways of lust for good.” In a play about recovery and redemption, he embodies the audience’s own potential transformation—the recognition that we too can be changed by witnessing goodness under pressure.
Music, awake her
The sad and rough music we have, Please make it play.
Second Gentleman · Act 3, Scene 2
Cerimon commands that music be played to draw Thaisa back from death. The line lodges in memory because of its simplicity and its power — music becomes not decoration but a form of medicine, a vibration that can call the dead back to life. It is the play's central image of restoration: that beauty and art can undo what time and the sea have done.
I ever / Have studied physic: through which secret art, / By turning o'er authorities, I have / Together with my practice, made familiar / To me and to my aid, the blest infusions / That dwells in vegetives, in metals, stones
I've always / Studied medicine, through which secret skill, / By reading texts, I have, / Along with my practice, become familiar / With the blessed remedies / That come from plants, metals, and stones
Second Gentleman · Act 3, Scene 2
Cerimon explains his life's study of medicine and natural philosophy as he prepares to revive the seemingly dead Thaisa. The line endures because it presents knowledge not as abstract learning but as service to life — Cerimon's art is defined by its union of study and practice, theory and mercy. He becomes the play's emblem of wisdom put to redemptive use.
