Act I, Scene I…

Act I, Scene I

Enter CLORIN, a shepherdess, having buried her love in an arbour.

Clorin. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly! Thus I salute thy grave; thus do I pay My early vows and tribute of mine eyes 5 To thy still-loved ashes; thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love; all sports, delights, and [jolly][3415] games, That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt 10 With youthful coronals,[3416] and lead the dance; No more the company of fresh fair maids And wanton shepherds be to me delightful, Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady dell, when the cool wind 15 Plays on the leaves: all be far away, Since thou art far away, by whose dear side How often have I sat crown’d with fresh flowers For summer’s queen, whilst every shepherd’s boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, 20 And hanging scrip of finest cordevan.[3417] But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory; That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring, Whilst there are pipes or jolly shepherds sing. 25 And here will I, in honour of thy love, Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes; Only rememb’ring what my youth did gain In the dark, hidden virtuous use of herbs: 30 That will I practise, and as freely give All my endeavours, as I gain’d them, free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charm’d with powerful words of wicked art, 35 Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild or lunatic, their eyes or ears Thick’ned with misty film of dulling rheum; These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin’s hand. 40 My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pull’d from the fair head of the straight-grown pine: On these I ’ll feed with free content, and rest, 45 When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.

Enter a Satyr [with a basket of fruit].

Sat. Through yon same bending plain, That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thick woods, have I run, Whose bottom never kist the sun 50 Since the lusty spring began; All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night, 55 His paramour, the Syrinx bright.— But, behold, a fairer sight! He stands amazed. By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race 60 Of the gods; for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live: therefore on this mould 65 Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive what’er this land From her fertile womb doth send 70 Of her choice fruits; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells: Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne’er grew, Never better nor more true. 75 Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Is the learned poets’ good, Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown Than the squirrel’s teeth that crack them; 80 Deign, O fairest fair, to take them! For these black-ey’d Dryope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb: See how well the lusty time 85 Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread! Here be berries for a queen, Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat, 90 The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; 95 Till when, numbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech’s shade. I must go, I must run 100 Swifter than the fiery sun. Exit.

Clo. And all my fears go with thee! What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me, to draw submission From this rude man and beast? Sure I am mortal, 105 The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal: prick my hand, And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal. 110 Yet I have heard (my mother told it me, And now I do believe it), if I keep My virgin-flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, 114 Satyr, or other power that haunts these groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires; Or voices calling me in dead of night, To make me follow, and so toll[3418] me on, Through mires and standing pools [to find my ruin:] 120 Else why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity,[3419] whose heats[3420] Are rougher than himself and more mis-shapen, Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there is a power 124 In that great name of virgin, that binds fast All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong chastity, Be thou my strongest guard, for here I ’ll dwell In opposition against fate and hell! [Retires into her bower.]

[SCENE II.][3421]

Enter an Old Shepherd, with four couples of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, [among whom are PERIGOT and AMORET.]

Old Shep. Now we have done this holy festival In honour of our great god, and his rites Perform’d, prepare yourselves for chaste And uncorrupted fires; that as the priest With powerful hand shall sprinkle on your brows 5 His pure and holy water, ye may be From all hot flames of lust and loose thoughts free. Kneel, shepherds, kneel; here comes the priest of Pan.

Enter Priest.

Priest. Shepherds, thus I purge away [Sprinkling them with water.] Whatsoever this great day, 10 Or the past hours, gave not good, To corrupt your maiden blood. From the high rebellious heat Of the grapes, and strength of meat, From the wanton quick desires 15 They do kindle by their fires I do wash you with this water; Be you pure and fair hereafter! From your livers and your veins Thus I take away the stains; 20 All your thoughts be smooth and fair: Be ye fresh and free as air! Never more let lustful heat Through your purged conduits[3422] beat, Or a plighted troth he broken, 25 Or a wanton verse be spoken In a shepherdess’s ear: Go your ways, ye are all clear. They rise and sing in praise of PAN.

THE SONG.

Sing his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, 30 Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. 35

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou that keep’st us chaste and free As the young spring; Ever be thy honour spoke, 40 From that place the Morn is broke To that place Day doth unyoke! Exeunt omnes but PERIGOT and AMORET.

Peri. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow’d maid; Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, Equal with his soul’s good.

Amo. Speak; I give 45 Thee freedom, shepherd; and thy tongue be still The same it ever was, as free from ill As he whose conversation never knew The court or city; be thou ever true!

Peri. When I fall off from my affection, 50 Or mingle my clean thoughts with foul desires, First, let our great god cease to keep my flocks, That, being left alone without a guard, The wolf, or winter’s rage, summer’s great heat And want of water, rots, or what to us 55 Of ill is yet unknown, fall speedily, And in their general ruin let me go!

Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so: I do believe thee; ’t is as hard for me To think thee false, and harder, than for thee To hold me foul.

Peri. Oh, you are fairer far 61 Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star That guides the wand’ring seaman through the deep; Straighter than the straightest pine upon the steep Head of an aged mountain; and more white 65 Than the new milk we strip before day-light From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks; Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks Of young Apollo!

Amo. Shepherd, be not lost; Y’ are sail’d too far already from the coast 70 Of your discourse.

Peri. Did you not tell me once I should not love alone, I should not lose Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, I’ve sent to heaven? Did you not give your hand, Even that fair hand, in hostage? Do not, then, Give back again those sweets to other men, 76 You yourself vow’d were mine.

Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden’s modesty May give assurance, I am once more thine, Once more I give my hand. Be ever free 80 From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy!

Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire, For stronger confirmation of our love, To meet this happy night in that fair grove, 84 Where all true shepherds have rewarded been For their long service: say, sweet, shall it hold?

Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me, if I make A doubt of what the silent night may do, Coupled with this day’s heat, to move your blood. Maids must be fearful. Sure you have not been Wash’d white enough, for yet I see a stain 91 Stick in your liver:[3423] go and purge again.

Peri. Oh, do not wrong my honest simple truth! Myself and my affections are as pure As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine 95 Of the great Dian: only my intent To draw you thither was to plight our troths, With interchange of mutual chaste embraces, And ceremonious tying of our souls. For to that holy wood is consecrate 100 A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh and dull mortality. 105 By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn, And given away his freedom, many a troth Been plight, which neither envy nor old time Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given, In hope of coming happiness; by this 110 Fresh fountain many a blushing maid Hath crown’d the head of her long-loved shepherd With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung Lays of his love and dear captivity. 114 There grows all herbs fit to cool looser flames Our sensual parts provoke, chiding our bloods, And quenching by their power those hidden sparks That else would break out, and provoke our sense To open fires; so virtuous is that place. Then, gentle shepherdess, believe, and grant. In troth, it fits not with that face to scant 121 Your faithful shepherd of those chaste desires He ever aim’d at, and——

Amo. Thou hast prevail’d: farewell. This coming night Shall crown thy chaste hopes with long-wish’d delight. 125

Peri. Our great god Pan reward thee for that good Thou hast given thy poor shepherd! Fairest bud Of maiden virtues, when I leave to be The true admirer of thy chastity, Let me deserve the hot polluted name 130 Of a wild woodman, or affect some dame Whose often prostitution hath begot More foul diseases than ever yet the hot Sun bred thorough his burnings, whilst the Dog Pursues the raging Lion, throwing fog 135 And deadly vapour from his angry breath, Filling the lower world with plague and death! Exit AMORET.

Enter AMARILLIS, another Shepherdess that is in love with PERIGOT.

Amar. Shepherd, may I desire to be believ’d, What I shall blushing tell?

Peri. Fair maid, you may.

Amar. Then, softly thus: I love thee, Perigot; 140 And would be gladder to be lov’d again Than the cold earth is in his frozen arms To clip[3424] the wanton spring. Nay, do not start, Nor wonder that I woo thee; thou that art The prime of our young grooms, even the top Of all our lusty shepherds. What dull eye, 146 That never was acquainted with desire, Hath seen thee wrastle, run, or cast the stone With nimble strength and fair delivery, And hath not sparkled fire, and speedily 150 Sent secret heat to all the neighbouring veins? Who ever heard thee sing, that brought again That freedom back was lent unto thy voice? Then, do not blame me, shepherd, if I be One to be numb’red in this company, 155 Since none that ever saw thee yet were free.

Peri. Fair shepherdess, much pity I can lend To your complaints; but sure I shall not love. All that is mine, myself and my best hopes, Are given already. Do not love him, then, 160 That cannot love again; on other men Bestow those heats, more free, that may return You fire for fire, and in one flame equal burn.

Amar. Shall I rewarded be so slenderly For my affection, most unkind of men? 165 If I were old, or had agreed with art To give another nature to my cheeks, Or were I common mistress to the love Of every swain, or could I with such ease Call back my love as many a wanton doth, 170 Thou mightst refuse me, shepherd; but to thee I am only fixt and set; let it not be A sport, thou gentle shepherd, to abuse The love of silly[3425] maid.

Peri. Fair soul, ye use These words to little end: for, know, I may 175 Better call back that time was yesterday, Or stay the coming night, than bring my love Home to myself again, or recreant prove. I will no longer hold you with delays: This present night I have appointed been 180 To meet that chaste fair that enjoys my soul, In yonder grove, there to make up our loves. Be not deceiv’d no longer, choose again: These neighbouring plains have many a comely swain, Fresher and freer[3426] far than I e’er was; 185 Bestow that love on them, and let me pass. Farewell: be happy in a better choice! Exit.

Amar. Cruel, thou hast struck me deader with thy voice Than if the angry heavens with their quick flames Had shot me through. I must not leave to love, I cannot; no, I must enjoy thee, boy, 191 Though the great dangers ’twixt my hopes and that Be infinite. There is a shepherd dwells Down by the moor, whose life hath ever shown More sullen discontent than Saturn’s brow 195 When he sits frowning on the births of men; One that doth wear himself away in loneness, And never joys, unless it be in breaking The holy plighted troths of mutual souls; One that lusts after every several beauty, 200 But never yet was known to love or like, Were the face fairer or more full of truth Than Phoebe in her fulness, or the youth Of smooth Lyaeus; whose nigh-starved flocks Are always scabby, and infect all sheep 205 They feed withal; whose lambs are ever last, And die before their weaning: and whose dog Looks, like his master, lean and full of scurf, Not caring for the pipe or whistle. This man may, If he be well wrought, do a deed of wonder, 210 Forcing me passage to my long desires: And here he comes, as fitly to my purpose As my quick thoughts could wish for.

Enter Sullen Shepherd.

Sull. Shep. Fresh beauty, let me not be thought uncivil, Thus to be partner of your loneness: ’t was 215 My love (that ever-working passion) drew Me to this place, to seek some remedy For my sick soul. Be not unkind and fair, For such the mighty Cupid in his doom Hath sworn to be aveng’d on; then, give room To my consuming fires, that so I may 221 Enjoy my long desires, and so allay Those flames that else would burn my life away.

Amar. Shepherd, were I but sure thy heart were sound As thy words seem to be, means might be found 225 To cure thee of thy long pains; for to me That heavy youth-consuming misery The love-sick soul endures never was pleasing. I could be well content with the quick easing Of thee and thy hot fires, might it procure 230 Thy faith and farther service to be sure.

Sull. Shep. Name but that work, danger, or what can Be compass’d by the wit or art of man; And, if I fail in my performance, may I never more kneel to the rising day! 235

Amar. Then, thus I try thee, shepherd. This name night That now comes stealing on, a gentle pair Have promis’d equal love, and do appoint To make yon wood the place where hands and hearts Are to be tied for ever. Break their meeting 240 And their strong faith, and I am ever thine.

Sull. Shep. Tell me their names, and if I do not move By my great power, the centre of their love From his fixt being, let me never more Warm me by those fair eyes I thus adore. 245

Amar. Come; as we go, I ’ll tell thee what they are, And give thee fit directions for thy work. Exeunt.

[SCENE III.][3427]

Enter CLOE.

Cloe. How have I wrong’d the times or men, that thus, After this holy feast, I pass unknown And unsaluted? ’T was not wont to be Thus frozen with the younger company Of jolly shepherds; ’t was not then held good 5 For lusty grooms to mix their quicker blood With that dull humour, most unfit to be The friend of man, cold and dull chastity. Sure I am held not fair, or am too old, Or else not free enough, or from my fold 10 Drive not a flock sufficient great to gain The greedy eyes of wealth-alluring swain. Yet, if I may believe what others say, My face has foil[3428] enough; nor can they lay Justly too strict a coyness to my charge; 15 My flocks are many, and the downs as large They feed upon. Then, let it ever be Their coldness, not my virgin-modesty Makes me complain.

Enter THENOT.

The. Was ever man but I Thus truly taken with uncertainty; 20 Where shall that man he found that loves a mind Made up in constancy, and dares not find His love rewarded? Here, let all men know, A wretch that lives to love his mistress so.

Cloe. Shepherd, I pray thee stay. Where hast thou been? 25 Or whither go’st thou? Here be woods as green As any; air [likewise][3429] as fresh and sweet As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet Face of the curled streams; with flowers as many As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; 30 Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, Arbours o’ergrown with woodbines, caves, and dells; Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, Or gather rushes, to make many a ring For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,— How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 36 First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she convey’d him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 40 Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night, Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light, To kiss her sweetest.

The. Far from me are these Hot flashes, bred from wanton heat and ease; I have forgot what love and loving meant; 45 Rhymes, songs, and merry rounds, that oft are sent To the soft ear of maid, are strange to me: Only I live t’ admire a chastity, That neither pleasing age, smooth tongue, nor gold, Could ever break upon, so sure[3430] a mould 50 Is that her mind was cast in; ’t is to her I only am reserv’d; she is my form I stir By, breathe and move; ’t is she, and only she, Can make me happy, or give misery.

Cloe. Good shepherd, may a stranger crave to know 55 To whom this dear observance[3431] you do owe?

The. You may, and by her virtue learn to square And level out your life; for to be fair, And nothing virtuous, only fits the eye Of gaudy youth and swelling vanity. 60 Then, know, she ’s call’d the Virgin of the Grove, She that hath long since buri’d her chaste love, And now lives by his grave, for whose dear soul She hath vow’d herself into the holy roll Of strict virginity: ’t is her I so admire, 65 Not any looser blood or new desire. [Exit.]

Cloe. Farewell, poor swain! thou art not for my bend;[3432] I must have quicker souls, whose words may tend To some free action. Give me him dare love At first encounter, and as soon dare prove! 70

THE SONG.

[Sings.] Come, shepherds, come! Come away Without delay, Whilst the gentle time doth stay. Green woods are dumb, 75 And will never tell to any Those dear kisses, and those many Sweet embraces that are given; Dainty pleasures, that would even Raise is coldest age a fire, 80 And give virgin-blood desire. Then, if ever, Now or never, Come and have it: Think not I 85 Dare deny, If you crave it. Enter DAPHNIS. [Aside.] Here comes another. Better be my speed, Thou god of blood! But certain, if I read Not false, this is that modest shepherd, he 90 That only dare salute, but ne’er could be Brought to kiss any, hold discourse, or sing, Whisper, or boldly ask that wished thing We all are born for; one that makes loving faces, And could be well content to covet graces, 95 Were they not got by boldness. In this thing My hopes are frozen; and, but fate doth bring Him hither, I would sooner choose A man made out of snow, and freer use An eunuch to my ends; but since he ’s here, 100 Thus I attempt him.—Thou, of men most dear, Welcome to her that only for thy sake Hath been content to live! Here, boldly take My hand in pledge, this hand, that never yet Was given away to any; and but sit 105 Down on this rushy bank, whilst I go pull Fresh blossoms from the boughs, or quickly cull The choicest delicates from yonder mead, To make thee chains or chaplets, or to spread Under our fainting bodies, when delight 110 Shall lock up all our senses. How the sight Of those smooth rising cheeks renew the story Of young Adonis, when in pride and glory He lay infolded ’twixt the beating arms Of willing Venus! Methinks stronger charms 115 Dwell in those speaking eyes, and on that brow More sweetness than the painters can allow To their best pieces. Not Narcissus, he That wept himself away in memory Of his own beauty, nor Silvanus’ boy,[3433] 120 Nor the twice-ravish’d maid, for whom old Troy Fell by the hand of Pyrrhus, may to thee Be otherwise compar’d, than some dead tree To a young fruitful olive.

Daph. I can love, But I am loth to say so, lest I prove 125 Too soon unhappy.

Cloe. Happy, thou wouldst say. My dearest Daphnis, blush not; if the day To thee and thy soft heats be enemy, Then take the coming night; fair youth, ’t is free To all the world. Shepherd, I ’ll meet thee then 130 When darkness hath shut up the eyes of men, In yonder grove. Speak, shall our meeting hold? Indeed you are too bashful; be more bold, And tell me ay.

Daph. I am content to say so, And would be glad to meet, might I but pray so 135 Much from your fairness, that you would be true.

Cloe. Shepherd, thou hast thy wish.

Daph. Fresh maid, adieu. Yet one word more: since you have drawn me on To come this night, fear not to meet alone That man that will not offer to be ill, 140 Though your bright self would ask it, for his fill Of this world’s goodness; do not fear him, then, But keep your ’pointed time. Let other men Set up their bloods to sale, mine shall be ever Fair as the soul it carries, and unchaste never. Exit.

Cloe. Yet am I poorer than I was before. 146 Is it not strange, among so many a score Of lusty bloods, I should pick out these things Whose veins, like a dull river far from springs, Is still the same, slow, heavy, and unfit 150 For stream or motion, though the strong winds hit With their continual power upon his sides? Oh, happy be your names that have been brides, And tasted those rare sweets for which I pine! And far more heavy be thy grief and tine,[3434] 155 Thou lazy swain, that mayst relieve my needs, Than his, upon whose liver always feeds A hungry vulture!

Enter ALEXIS.

Alex. Can such beauty be Safe in his[3435] own guard, and not draw the eye Of him that passeth on, to greedy gaze 160 Or covetous desire, whilst in a maze The better part contemplates, giving rein, And wished freedom to the labouring vein? Fairest and whitest, may I crave to know The cause of your retirement, why you go 165 Thus all alone? Methinks the downs are sweeter, And the young company of swains more meeter, Than these forsaken and untrodden places. Give not yourself to loneness, and those graces Hide from the eyes of men, that were intended To live amongst us swains.

Cloe. Thou art befriended, 171 Shepherd: in all my life I have not seen A man in whom greater contents hath been, Than thou thyself art. I could tell thee more, Were there but any hope left to restore 175 My freedom lost. Oh, lend me all thy red, Thou shame-fast Morning, when from Tithon’s[3436] bed Thou risest ever-maiden!

Alex. If for me, Thou sweetest of all sweets, these flashes be, Speak, and he satisfi’d. Oh, guide her tongue, My better angel; force my name among 181 Her modest thoughts, that the first word may be——

Cloe. Alexis, when the sun shall kiss the sea, Taking his rest by the white Thetis’ side. Meet me in the holy wood, where I ’ll abide 185 Thy coming, shepherd.

Alex. If I stay behind, An everlasting dulness, and the wind, That as he passeth by shuts up the stream Of Rhine or Volga, whilst the sun’s hot beam Beats back again, seize me, and let me turn 190 To coldness more than ice! Oh, how I burn And rise in youth and fire! I dare not stay.

Cloe. My name shall be your word.

Alex. Fly, fly, thou day! Exit.

Cloe. My grief is great, if both these boys should fail: 194 He that will use all winds must shift his sail. Exit.

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Act II, Scene I — [3437]

Enter Old Shepherd with a bell ringing, and the Priest of Pan following.

Priest. Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air ’Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops how they kiss 5 Every little flower that is; Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads; See the heavy clouds down[3438] falling, And bright Hesperus loud[3438] calling 10 The dead Night from under ground; At whose rising mists unsound,[3439] Damps and vapours fly apace, Hovering o’er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come, 15 Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore, from such danger lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout 20 From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away; Or the crafty thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourselves from these, 25 Be not too secure in ease. Let one eye his watches keep, Whilst the t’other eye doth sleep; So you shall good shepherds prove, And for ever hold the love 30 Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers, And soft silence, fall in numbers On your eyelids! So, farewell: Thus I end my evening’s knell. Exeunt.

[SCENE II.][3440]

Enter CLORIN, the Shepherdess, sorting of herbs, and telling the natures of them.

Clo. Now let me know what my best art hath done, Helpt by the great power of the virtuous moon In her full light. Oh, you sons of earth, You only brood, unto whose [happy][3441] birth Virtue was given, holding more of nature 5 Than man, her first-born and most perfect creature. Let me adore you! you, that only can Help or kill nature, drawing out that span Of life and breath even to the end of time; You, that these hands did [crop][3442] long before prime 10 Of day, give me your names, and, next, your hidden power. This is the clote,[3443] bearing a yellow flower; And this, black horehound; both are very good For sheep or shepherd bitten by a wood[3444] Dog’s venom’d teeth: these rhamnus[3445] branches are, 15 Which, stock in entries, or about the bar That holds the door, kill all enchantments, charms (Were they Medea’s verses), that do harms To men or cattle: these for frenzy be A speedy and a sovereign remedy, 20 The bitter wormwood, sage, and marigold; Such sympathy with man’s good they do hold: This tormentil,[3446] whose virtue is to part All deadly killing poison from the heart: And, here, narcissus root, for swellings best: 25 Yellow lysimachus,[3447] to give sweet rest To the faint shepherd, killing, where it comes, All busy gnats, and every fly that hums: For leprosy, darnel and celandine, With calamint, whose virtues do refine 30 The blood of man, making it free and fair As the first hour it breath d, or the best air: Here, other two; but your rebellious use Is not for me, whose goodness is abuse; Therefore, foul standergrass,[3448] from me and mine 35 I banish thee, with lustful turpentine; You that entice the veins and stir the heat To civil mutiny, scaling the seat Our reason moves in, and deluding it With dreams and wanton [fancies][3449] till the fit Of burning lust be quencht, by appetite 41 Robbing the soul of blessedness and light: And thou, light vervain, too, thou must go after, Provoking easy souls to mirth and laughter; No more shall I dip thee in water now, 45 And sprinkle every post and every bough With thy well-pleasing juice, to make the grooms Swell with high mirth, and with joy all the rooms.

Enter THENOT.

The. This is the cabin where the best of all Her sex that ever breath’d, or ever shall 50 Give heat or happiness to the shepherd’s side, Doth only to her worthy self abide. Thou blessed star, I thank thee for thy light, Thou by whose power the darkness of sad night Is banisht from the earth, in whose dull place Thy chaster beams play on the heavy face 56 Of all the world, make the blue sea smile, To see how cunningly thou dost beguile Thy brother of his brightness, giving day Again from chaos; whiter than that way 60 That leads to Jove’s high court, and chaster far Than chastity itself, you blessed star That brightly shines! thou, all the constancy That in all women was or e’er shall be; From whose fair eye-balls flies that holy fire 65 That styled is the mother of desire, Infusing into every gentle breast A soul of greater price, and far more blest, Than that quick power which gives a difference ’Twixt man and creatures of a lower sense! 70

Clo. Shepherd, how cam’st thou hither to this place? No way is trodden; all the verdant grass The spring shot up stands yet unbruised here Of any foot; only the dappled deer, Far from the feared sound of crooked horn, 75 Dwells in this fastness.

The. Chaster than the morn, I have not wand’red, or by strong illusion Into this virtuous place have made intrusion: But hither am I come (believe me, fair). To seek you out, of whose great good the air 80 Is full, and strongly labours, whilst the sound Breaks against heaven, and drives into a stound[3450] Th’ amazed shepherd, that such virtue can Be resident in lesser than a man.

Clo. If any art I have, or hidden skill, 85 May cure thee of disease or fest’red ill Whose grief or greenness to another’s eye May seem unpossible of remedy, I dare yet undertake it.

The. ’T is no pain I suffer through disease, no heating vein 90 Conveys infection dangerous to the heart, No part imposthum’d, to be cur’d by art, This body holds; and yet a feller grief Than ever skilful hand did give relief, Dwells on my soul, and may be heal’d by you, Fair, beauteous virgin.

Clo. Then, shepherd, let me sue 96 To know thy grief: that man yet never knew The way to health that durst not show his sore.

The. Then, fairest, know, I love you.

Clo. Swain, no more! Thou hast abus’d the strictness of this place, 100 And off’red sacrilegious foul disgrace To the sweet rest of these interred bones; For fear of whose ascending, fly at once, Thou and thy idle passions, that the sight Of death and speedy vengeance may not fright Thy very soul with horror.

The. Let me not, 106 Thou all perfection, merit such a blot For my true zealous faith.

Clo. Dar’st thou abide To see this holy earth at once divide, And give her body up? for sure it will, 110 If thou pursu’st with wanton flame to fill This hallowed place: therefore repent and go, Whilst I with prayers appease his ghost below, That else would tell thee what it were to be A rival in that virtuous love that he 115 Embraces yet.

The. ’T is not the white or red Inhabits in your cheek that thus can wed My mind to adoration; nor your eye, Though it be full and fair, your forehead high And smooth as Pelops’ shoulder; not the smile Lies watching in those dimples to beguile 121 The easy soul; your hands and fingers long, With veins enamell’d richly; nor your tongue, Though it spoke sweeter than Arion’s harp; Your hair woven into many a curious warp, 125 Able in endless error to enfold The [wand’ring][3451] soul; not the true perfect mould Of all your body, which as pure doth show In maiden-whiteness as the Alpine snow: All these, were but your constancy away, 130 Would please me less than a black stormy day The wretched seaman toiling through the deep. But, whilst this honour’d strictness you do keep, Though all the plagues that e’er begotten were In the great womb of air were settled here, 135 In opposition, I would, like the tree, Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free Even in the arm of danger.

Clo. Wouldst thou have Me raise again, fond man, from silent grave Those sparks, that long ago were buried here 140 With my dead friend’s cold ashes?

The. Dearest dear, I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant: Stand strongly to your vow, and do not faint. Remember how he lov’d you, and be still The same opinion speaks you: let not will, 145 And that great god of women, appetite, Set up your blood again; do not invite Desire and fancy from their long exile, To seat them once more in a pleasing smile: Be, like a rock, made firmly up ’gainst all 150 The power of angry heaven, or the strong fall Of Neptune’s battery. If you yield, I die To all affection; ’t is that loyalty You tie unto this grave I so admire: And yet there ’s something else I would desire, If you would hear me, but withal deny. 156 Oh, Pan, what an uncertain destiny Hangs over all my hopes! I will retire; For, if I longer stay, this double fire Will lick my life up.

Clo. Do; and let time wear out 160 What art and nature cannot bring about.

The. Farewell, thou soul of virtue, and be blest For ever, whilst [that here][3452] I wretched rest Thus to myself! Yet grant me leave to dwell In kenning[3453] of this arbour: yon same dell, 165 O’ertopt with mourning cypress and sad yew, Shall be my cabin, where I ’ll early rue, Before the sun hath kist this dew away, The hard uncertain chance which faith doth lay Upon his head.

Clo. The gods give quick release 170 And happy cure unto thy hard disease! Exeunt.

[SCENE III.][3454]

Enter Sullen Shepherd.

Sull. Shep. I do not love this wench that I should meet; For ne’er did my unconstant eye yet greet That beauty, were it sweeter or more fair Than the new blossoms when the morning-air Blows gently on them, or the breaking light, 5 When many maiden-blushes to our sight Shoot from his early face: were all these set In some neat form before me, ’t would not get The least love from me; some desire it might, And present burning. All to me in sight 10 Are equal; be they fair, or black, or brown, Virgin, or careless wanton, I can crown My appetite with any; swear as oft, And weep, as any; melt my words as soft Into a maiden’s ears, and tell how long 15 My heart has been her servant, and how strong My passions are; call her unkind and cruel; Offer her all I have to gain the jewel Maidens so highly [prize]:[3455] then loathe, and fly: This do I hold a blessed destiny. 20

Enter AMARILLIS.

Amar. Hail, shepherd! Pan bless both thy flock and thee, For being mindful of thy word to me!

Sull. Shep. Welcome, fair shepherdess! Thy loving swain Gives thee the self-same wishes back again; 24 Who till this present hour ne’er knew that eye Could make me cross mine arms, or daily die With fresh consumings. Boldly tell me, then, How shall we part their faithful loves, and when? Shall I belie him to her? Shall I swear His faith is false and he loves every where? 30 I ’ll say he mockt her th’ other day to you; Which will by your confirming show as true, For [she][3456] is of so pure an honesty, To think, because [she][3456] will not, none will lie. Or else to him I ’ll slander Amoret, 35 And say, she but seems chaste; I ’ll swear she met Me ’mongst the shady sycamores last night, And loosely off’red up her flame and sprite Into my bosom; made a wanton bed 39 Of leaves and many flowers, where she spread Her willing body to be prest by me; There have I carv’d her name on many a tree, Together with mine own. To make this show More full of seeming,—Hobinal, you know, Son to the aged shepherd of the glen, 45 Him I have sorted out of many men, To say he found us at our private sport, And rous’d us ’fore our time by his resort. This to confirm, I’ve promis’d to the boy Many a pretty knack and many a toy; 50 As gins to catch him birds, with bow and bolt To shoot at conies,[3457] squirrels, in the holt; A pair of painted buskins, and a lamb Soft as his own locks or the down of swan. This I have done to win you; which doth give Me double pleasure: discord makes me live. 56

Amar. Lov’d swain, I thank ye. These tricks might prevail With other rustic shepherds, but will fail Even once to stir, much more to overthrow, 59 His fixed love from judgment, who doth know Your nature, my end, and his chosen’s merit; Therefore some stronger way must force his spirit, Which I have found: give second, and my love Is everlasting thine.

Sull. Shep. Try me, and prove.

Amar. These happy pair of lovers meet straightway, 65 Soon as they fold their flocks up with the day, In the thick grove bordering upon yon hill, In whose hard side nature hath carv’d a well, And, but that matchless spring which poets know, Was ne’er the like to this. By it doth grow, 70 About the sides, all herbs which witches use, All simples good for medicine or abuse, All sweets that crown the happy nuptial day, With all their colours; there the month of May Is ever dwelling, all is young and green; 75 There’s not a grass on which was ever seen The falling autumn or cold winter’s hand; So full of heat and virtue is the land About this fountain, which doth slowly break, Below yon mountain’s foot, into a creek 80 That waters all the valley, giving fish Of many sorts to fill the shepherd’s dish. This holy well, my grandam that is dead, Right wise in charms, hath often to me said, Hath power to change the form of any creature, Being thrice dipt o’er the head, into what feature 86 Or shape ’t would please the letter-down to crave, Who must pronounce this charm too, which she gave [Showing a scroll.] Me on her death-bed; told me what, and how, I should apply unto the patients’ brow 90 That would be chang’d, casting them thrice asleep, Before I trusted them into this deep. All this she show’d me, and did charge me prove This secret of her art, if crost in love. I ’ll this attempt now, shepherd; I have here 95 All her prescriptions, and I will not fear To be myself dipt. Come, my temples bind With these sad herbs, and when I sleep you find, As you do speak your charm, thrice down me let, And bid the water raise me Amoret; 100 Which being done, leave me to my affair, And ere the day shall quite itself outwear, I will return unto my shepherd’s arm; Dip me again, and then repeat this charm, And pluck me up myself, whom freely take, And the hott’st fire of thine affection slake. 106

Sull. Shep. And if I fit thee not, then fit not me. I long the truth of this well’s power to see. Exeunt.

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Act II, Scene IV — [3458]

Enter DAPHNIS.

Daph. Here will I stay, for this the covert is Where I appointed Cloe. Do not miss, Thou bright-ey’d virgin; come, oh come, my fair! Be not abus’d with fear, nor let cold care Of honour stay thee from thy shepherd’s arm, 5 Who would as hard be won to offer harm To thy chaste thoughts, as whiteness from the day, Or yon great round to move another way. My language shall be honest, full of truth, My flame as smooth and spotless as my youth; 10 I will not entertain that wand’ring thought, Whose easy current may at length be brought To a loose vastness.

Alexis. (within.) Cloe!

Daph. ’T is her voice, And I must answer.—Cloe!—Oh, the choice Of dear embraces, chaste and holy strains 15 Our hands shall give! I charge you, all my veins, Through which the blood and spirit take their way, Lock up your disobedient heats, and stay Those mutinous desires that else would grow To strong rebellion; do not wilder show 20 Than blushing modesty may entertain.

Alexis. (within.) Cloe!

Daph. There sounds that blessed name again, And I will meet it. Let me not mistake; Enter ALEXIS. This is some shepherd. Sure, I am awake: What may this riddle mean? I will retire, 25 To give myself more knowledge. [Retires.]

Alexis. Oh, my fire, How thou consum’st me!—Cloe, answer me! Alexis, strong Alexis, high and free, Calls upon Cloe. See, mine arms are full Of entertainment, ready for to pull 30 That golden fruit which too, too long hath hung Tempting the greedy eye. Thou stay’st too long; I am impatient of those mad delays: I must not leave unsought those many ways That lead into this centre, till I find 35 Quench for my burning lust. I come, unkind! Exit.

Daph. [coming forward.] Can my imagination work me so much ill, That I may credit this for truth, and still Believe mine eyes? Or shall I firmly hold Her yet untainted, and these sights but bold 40 Illusion? Sure, such fancies oft have been Sent to abuse true love, and yet are seen Daring to blind the virtuous thought with error; But be they far from me with their fond terror! I am resolv’d my Cloe yet is true. (Cloe within.) 45 Cloe! Hark! Cloe! Sure, this voice is new, Whose shrillness, like the sounding of a bell, Tells me it is a woman.—Cloe, tell Thy blessed name again.

Cloe. (within.) Here!

Daph. Oh, what a grief is this, to be so near, 50 And not encounter!

Enter CLOE.

Cloe. Shepherd, we are met: Draw close into the covert, lest the wet, Which falls like lazy mist upon the ground, Soak through your startups.[3459]

Daph. Fairest, are you found? How have we wand’red, that the better part Of this good night is perisht? Oh, my heart! How have I long’d to meet you, how to kiss 57 Those lily hands, how to receive the bliss That charming tongue gives to the happy ear Of him that drinks your language! But I fear I am too much unmanner’d, far too rude, 61 And almost grown lascivious, to intrude These hot behaviours; where regard of fame, Honour and modesty, a virtuous name, And such discourse as one fair sister may 65 Without offence unto the brother say, Should rather have been tend’red. But, believe, Here dwells a better temper: do not grieve, Then, ever-kindest, that my first salute Seasons so much of fancy; I am mute 70 Henceforth to all discourses but shall be Suiting to your sweet thoughts and modesty. Indeed, I will not ask a kiss of you, No, not to wring your fingers, nor to sue To those blest pair of fixed stars for smiles; 75 All a young lover’s cunning, all his wiles, And pretty wanton dyings shall to me Be strangers; only to your chastity I am devoted ever.

Cloe. Honest swain, First let me thank you, then return again 80 As much of my love.—[Aside.] No, thou art too cold, Unhappy boy, not temp’red to my mould; Thy blood falls heavy downward. ’T is not fear To offend in boldness wins; they never wear Deserved favours that deny to take 85 When they are offered freely. Do I wake, To see a man of his youth, years, and feature, And such a one as we call goodly creature, Thus backward? What a world of precious art Were merely lost, to make him do his part! 90 But I will shake him off, that dares not hold: Let men that hope to be belov’d be bold. Daphnis, I do desire, since we are met So happily, our lives and fortunes set Upon one stake, to give assurance now, 95 By interchange of hands and holy vow, Never to break again. Walk you that way, Whilst I in zealous meditation stray A little this way. When we both have ended These rites and duties, by the woods befriended 100 And secrecy of night, retire and find An aged oak, whose hollowness may bind Us both within his body; thither go; It stands within yon bottom.

Daph. Be it so. Exit.

Cloe. And I will meet there never more with thee, 105 Thou idle shamefastness!

Alexis. (within.) Cloe!

Cloe. ’T is he That dare, I hope, be bolder.

Alexis. (within.) Cloe!

Cloe. Now, Great Pan, for Syrinx’ sake, bid speed our plough! Exit.

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Act III, Scene I — [3460]

Enter Sullen Shepherd, with AMARILLIS in a sleep.

Sull. Shep. From thy forehead thus I take These herbs, and charge thee not awake Till in yonder holy well Thrice, with powerful magic spell Fill’d with many a baleful word 5 Thou hast been dipt. Thus, with my cord Of blasted hemp, by moonlight twin’d I do thy sleepy body bind. I turn thy head unto the east, And thy feet unto the west, 10 Thy left arm to the south put forth, And thy right unto the north. I take thy body from the ground, In this deep and deadly swound, And into this holy spring 15 I let thee slide down by my string.—[Lets her down into the well.] Take this maid, thou holy pit, To thy bottom; nearer yet; In thy water pure and sweet, By thy leave I dip her feet; 20 Thus I let her lower yet, That her ankles may be wet; Yet down lower, let her knee In thy waters washed be; There stop.—Fly away, 25 Every thing that loves the day! Truth, that hath but one face, Thus I charm thee from this place. Snakes that cast your coats for new, Chameleons that alter hue, 30 Hares that yearly sexes change, Proteus alt’ring oft and strange, Hecate with shapes three, Let this maiden changed be, With this holy water wet, 35 To the shape of Amoret! Cynthia, work thou with my charm!— Thus I draw thee, free from harm, [Draws her out of the well, in the shape of AMORET.] Up out of this blessed lake. Rise both like her and awake! She awaketh. 40

Amar. Speak, shepherd, am I Amoret to sight? Or hast thou mist in any magic rite, For want of which any defect in me May make our practices discovered be?

Sull. Shep. By yonder moon, but that I here do stand, 45 Whose breath hath thus transform’d[3461] thee, and whose hand Let thee down dry, and pluckt thee up thus wet, I should myself take thee for Amoret! Thou art in clothes, in feature, voice and hue, So like, that sense cannot distinguish you. 50

Amar. Then, this deceit, which cannot crossed be, At once shall lose her him, and gain thee me. Hither she needs must come, by promise made; And, sure, his nature never was so bad, To bid a virgin meet him in the wood, 55 When night and fear are up, but understood ’T was his part to come first. Being come, I ’ll say, My constant love made me come first and stay; Then will I lead him further to the grove: But stay you here, and, if his own true love 60 Shall seek him here, set her in some wrong path, Which say her lover lately trodden hath; I’ll not be far from hence. If need there be, Here is another charm, whose power will free [Gives a scroll.] The dazzled sense, read by the moonbeams clear, 65 And in my own true shape make me appear.

Enter PERIGOT.

Sull. Shep. Stand close; here’s Perigot, whose constant heart Longs to behold her in whose shape thou art. [Retires with AMARILLIS.]

Peri. This is the place.—Fair Amoret!—The hour Is yet scarce come. Here every sylvan power 70 Delights to be, about yon sacred well, Which they have blest with many a powerful spell; For never traveller in dead of night, Nor stray’d beasts have fall’n in; but when sight Hath fail’d them, then their right way they have found 75 By help of them, so holy is the ground, But I will farther seek, lest Amoret Should be first come, and so stray long unmet.— My Amoret, Amoret! Exit.

[Amar. coming forward. Perigot!][3462]

Peri. [within. ] My love!

Amar. I come, my love! Exit.

Sull. Shep. Now she hath got Her own desires, and I shall gainer be 81 Of my long-lookt-for hopes, as well as she. How bright the moon shines here, as if she strove To show her glory in this little grove, Enter AMORET. To some new-loved shepherd! Yonder is 85 Another Amoret. Where differs this From that? But that she Perigot hath met, I should have ta’en this for the counterfeit. Herbs, woods, and springs, the power that in you lies, If mortal men could know your properties! 90

Amo. Methinks it is not night; I have no fear, Walking this wood, of lion or of bear, Whose names at other times have made me quake, When any shepherdess in her tale spake Of some of them, that underneath a wood 95 Have torn true lovers that together stood; Methinks there are no goblins, and men’s talk, That in these woods the nimble fairies walk, Are fables: such a strong heart I have got Because I come to meet with Perigot.— 100 My Perigot! Who ’s that? my Perigot?

Sull. Shep. (coming forward.) Fair maid!

Amo. Aye me, thou art not Perigot?

Sull. Shep. But I can tell you news of Perigot. An hour together under yonder tree He sat with wreathed arms, and call’d on thee And said, “Why, Amoret, stay’st thou so long?” 106 Then starting up, down yonder path he flung, Lest thou hadst miss’d thy way. Were it daylight, He could not yet have borne him out of sight.

Amo. Thanks, gentle shepherd; and beshrew my stay, 110 That made me fearful I had lost my way. As fast as my weak legs (that cannot be Weary with seeking him) will carry me, I’ll follow: and, for this thy care of me,[3463] Pray Pan thy love may ever follow thee! Exit.

Sull. Shep. How bright she was, how lovely did she show! 116 Was it not pity to deceive her so? She pluckt her garments up, and tript away, And with a virgin-innocence did pray 119 For me that perjur’d her. Whilst she was here, Methought the beams of light that did appear Were shot from her; methought the moon gave none But what it had from her. She was alone With me; if then her presence did so move, Why did I not assay to win her love? 125 [Would she][3464] not sure have yielded unto me? Women love only opportunity, And not the man; or if she had deni’d, Alone, I might have forc’d her to have tri’d Who had been stronger. Oh, vain fool, to let Such blest occasion pass! I’ll follow yet; 131 My blood is up; I cannot now forbear. Enter ALEXIS and CLOE. I come, sweet Amoret!—Soft, who is here? A pair of lovers? He shall yield her me: 134 Now lust is up, alike all women be. [Retires.]

Alexis. Where shall we rest? But for the love of me, Cloe, I know, ere this would weary be.

Cloe. Alexis, let us rest here, if the place Be private, and out of the common trace Of every shepherd; for, I understood, 140 This night a number are about the wood: Then, let us choose some place, where, out of sight, We freely may enjoy our stol’n delight.

Alexis. Then, boldly here, where we shall ne’er be found. No shepherd’s way lies here, ’t is hallow’d ground; 145 No maid seeks here her strayed cow or sheep; Fairies and fawns and satyrs do it keep. Then, carelessly rest here, and clip and kiss, And let no fear make us our pleasures miss. 149

Cloe. Then, lie by me: the sooner we begin, The longer ere the day descry our sin. [They lie down.]

Sull. Shep. [coming forward.] Forbear to touch my love; or, by yon flame, The greatest power that shepherds dare to name, Here where thou sit’st, under this holy tree, Her to dishonour, thou shalt buried be! 156

Alexis. If Pan himself should come out of the lawns, With all his troops of satyrs and of fawns, And bid me leave, I swear by her two eyes (A greater oath than thine), I would not rise!

Sull. Shep. Then, from the cold earth never thou shalt move, 160 But lose at one stroke both thy life and love. [Wounds him with his spear.]

Cloe. Hold, gentle shepherd!

Sull. Shep. Fairest shepherdess, Come you with me; I do not love you less Than that fond man, that would have kept you there From me of more desert.

Alexis. Oh, yet forbear 165 To take her from me! Give me leave to die By her!

Enter Satyr; Sullen Shepherd runs one way, and CLOE another.

Sat. Now, whilst the moon doth rule the sky, And the stars, whose feeble light Gives a pale shadow to the night, Are up, great Pan commanded me 170 To walk this grove about, whilst he, In a corner of the wood, Where never mortal foot hath stood, Keeps dancing, music, and a feast, To entertain a lovely guest; 175 Where he gives her many a rose, Sweeter than the breath that blows The leaves; grapes, berries of the best; I never saw so great a feast. But, to my charge. Here must I stay, 180 To see what mortals lose their way, And by a false fire, seeming bright, Train them in and leave them right, Then must I watch if any be Forcing of a chastity; 185 If I find it, then in haste Give my wreathed horn a blast, And the fairies all will run, Wildly dancing by the moon, And will pinch him to the bone, 190 Till his lustful thoughts be gone.

Alexis. Oh, death!

Sat. Back again about this ground; Sure, I hear a mortal sound.— I bind thee by this powerful spell, 195 By the waters of this well, By the glimmering moonbeams bright, Speak again, thou mortal wight!

Alexis. Oh!

Sat. Here the foolish mortal lies, 200 Sleeping on the ground.—Arise!— The poor wight is almost dead; On the ground his wounds have bled, And his clothes foul’d with his blood: To my goddess in the wood 205 Will I lead him, whose hands pure Will help this mortal wight to cure. [Exit carrying ALEXIS.]

Re-enter CLOE.

Cloe. Since I beheld yon shaggy man, my breast Doth pant; each bush, methinks, should hide a beast. Yet my desire keeps still above my fear: 210 I would fain meet some shepherd, knew I where; For from one cause of fear I am most free, It is impossible to ravish me, I am so willing. Here upon this ground I left my love, all bloody with his wound; 215 Yet, till that fearful shape made me begone, Though he were hurt, I furnisht was of one; But now both lost.—Alexis, speak or move, If thou hast any life; thou art yet my love!— He ’s dead, or else is with this little might 220 Crept from the bank for fear of that ill sprite.— Then, where art thou that struck’st my love? Oh, stay! Bring me thyself in change, and then I ’ll say Thou hast some justice. I will make thee trim With flowers and garlands that were meant for him; 225 I ’ll clip thee round with both mine arms, as fast As I did mean he should have been embrac’d. But thou art fled.—What hope is left for me? I ’ll run to Daphnis in the hollow tree, Whom I did mean to mock; though hope be small 230 To make him bold, rather than none at all, I ’ll try him; his heart, and my behaviour too, Perhaps may teach him what he ought to do. Exit.

Re-enter Sullen Shepherd.

Sull. Shep. This was the place. ’T was but my feeble sight, Mixt with the horror of my deed, and night, 235 That shapt these fears, and made me run away, And lose my beauteous hardly-gotten prey.— Speak, gentle shepherdess! I am alone, And tender love for love.—But she is gone From me, that, having struck her lover dead, For silly fear left her alone and fled. 241 And see, the wounded body is remov’d By her of whom it was so well belov’d. Enter PERIGOT, and AMARILLIS in the shape of AMORET. But all these fancies must be quite forgot. I must lie close; here comes young Perigot, 245 With subtle Amarillis in the shape Of Amoret. Pray, love, he may not scape! [Retires.]

Amar. Beloved Perigot, show me some place, Where I may rest my limbs weak with the chase Of thee, an hour before thou cam’st at least. 250

Peri. Beshrew my tardy steps! Here shalt thou rest Upon this holy bank: no deadly snake Upon this turf herself in folds doth make; Here is no poison for the toad to feed; Here boldly spread thy hands; no venom’d weed 255 Dares blister them; no slimy snail dare creep Over thy face when thou art fast asleep; Here never durst the babbling cuckoo spit;[3465] No slough of falling star did ever hit Upon this bank: let this thy cabin be; 260 This other, set with violets, for me. [They lie down.]

Amar. Thou dost not love me, Perigot.

Peri. Fair maid, You only love to hear it often said; You do not doubt.

Amar. Believe me, but I do.

Peri. What, shall we now begin again to woo? 265 ’T is the best way to make your lover last, To play with him when you have caught him fast.

Amar. By Pan I swear, beloved[3466] Perigot, And by yon moon, I think thou lov’st me not.

Peri. By Pan I swear,—and, if I falsely swear, 270 Let him not guard my flocks; let foxes tear My earliest lambs, and wolves, whilst I do sleep, Fall on the rest; a rot among my sheep,— I love thee better than the careful ewe 274 The new-yean’d[3467] lamb that is of her own hue: I dote upon thee more than that young lamb Doth on the bag that feeds him from his dam! Were there a sort[3468] of wolves got in my fold, And one ran after thee, both young and old Should be devour’d, and it should be my strife To save thee, whom I love above my life. 281

Amar. How should I trust thee, when I see thee choose Another bed, and dost my side refuse?

Peri. ’T was only that the chaste thoughts might be shown ’Twixt thee and me, although we were alone.

Amar. Come, Perigot will show his power, that he 286 Can make his Amoret, though she weary be, Rise nimbly from her couch, and come to his. Here, take thy Amoret; embrace and kiss. [Lies down beside him.]

Peri. What means my love?

Amar. To do as lovers should, 290 That are to be enjoy’d, not to be woo’d. There ’s ne’er a shepherdess in all the plain Can kiss thee with more art; there ’s none can feign More wanton tricks.

Peri. Forbear, dear soul, to try Whether my heart be pure; I ’ll rather die 295 Than nourish one thought to dishonour thee.

Amar. Still think ’st thou such a thing as chastity Is amongst women? Perigot, there ’s none That with her love is in a wood alone, And would come home a maid: be not abus’d With thy fond first belief; let time be us’d. 301 [PERIGOT rises.] Why dost thou rise?

Peri. My true heart thou hast slain!

Amar. Faith, Perigot, I ’ll pluck thee down again.

Peri. Let go, thou serpent, that into my breast Hast with thy cunning div’d!—Art not in jest? 305

Amar. Sweet love, lie down.

Peri. Since this I live to see, Some bitter north wind blast my flocks and me!

Amar. You swore you lov’d, yet will not do my will.

Peri. Oh, be as thou wert once, I ’ll love thee still!

Amar. I am as still I was, and all my kind; Though other shows we have, poor men to blind. 311

Peri. Then, here I end all love; and, lest my vain Belief should ever draw me in again, Before thy face, that hast my youth misled, I end my life! my blood be on thy head! 315 [Offers to kill himself with his spear.]

Amar. [rising.] Oh, hold thy hands, thy Amoret doth cry!

Peri. Thou counsel’st well; first, Amoret shall die, That is the cause of my eternal smart!

Amar. Oh, hold! [Exit.]

Peri. This steel shall pierce thy lustful heart!

[Exit.] running after her. The Sullen Shepherd steps out and un-charms her.

Sull. Shep. Up and down, every where, 320 I strew the herbs, to purge the air: Let your odour drive hence All mists that dazzle sense. Herbs and springs, whose hidden might Alters shapes, and mocks the sight, 325 Thus I charge ye to undo All before I brought ye to! Let her fly, let her scape; Give again her own shape! [Retires.]

Re-enter AMARILLIS in her own shape, [and PERIGOT following with his spear.]

Amar. Forbear, thou gentle swain! thou dost mistake; 330 She whom thou follow’st fled into the brake, And as I crost thy way, I met thy wrath; The only fear of which near slain me hath.

Peri. Pardon, fair shepherdess: my rage and night Were both upon me, and beguil’d my sight: 335 But far be it from me to spill the blood Of harmless maids that wander in the wood! Exit AMARILLIS.

Enter AMORET.

Amo. Many a weary step, in yonder path, Poor hopeless Amoret twice trodden hath, To seek her Perigot; yet cannot hear 340 His voice.—My Perigot! She loves thee dear That calls.

Peri. See yonder where she is! How fair She shows! and yet her breath infects the air.

Amo. My Perigot!

Peri. Here.

Amo. Happy!

Peri. Hapless! first It lights on thee: the next blow is the worst. 345

[Wounds her.]

Amo. Stay, Perigot! My love, thou art unjust. [Falls.]

Peri. Death is the best reward that ’s due to lust. Exit.

Sull. Shep. Now shall their love be crost: for, being struck, I’ll throw her in the fount, lest being took By some night-traveller, whose honest care 350 May help to cure her.— [Comes forward.] Shepherdess, prepare Yourself to die!

Amo. No mercy I do crave; Thou canst not give a worse blow than I have. Tell him that gave me this, who lov’d him too, He struck my soul, and not my body through; Tell him, when I am dead, my soul shall be 356 At peace, if he but think he injur’d me.

Sull. Shep. In this fount be thy grave. Thou wert not meant Sure for a woman, thou art so innocent.— He flings her into the well. She cannot scape, for, underneath the ground, 360 In a long hollow the clear spring is bound, Till on yon side, where the morn’s sun doth look, The struggling water breaks out in a brook. Exit.

The God of the River riseth with AMORET in his arms.

God of the R. What powerful charms my streams do bring Back again unto their spring, 365 With such force that I their god, Three times striking with my rod, Could not keep them in their ranks? My fishes shoot into the banks; There ’s not one that stays and feeds, 370 All have hid them in the weeds. Here ’s a mortal almost dead, Fall’n into my river-head, Hallowed so with many a spell, That till now none ever fell. 375 ’T is a female young and clear, Cast in by some ravisher: See, upon her breast a wound, On which there is no plaster bound. Yet, she ’s warm, her pulses beat, 380 ’T is a sign of life and heat.— If thou be’st a virgin pure, I can give a present cure: Take a drop into thy wound, From my watery locks, more round 385 Than orient pearl, and far more pure Than unchaste flesh may endure.— See, she pants, and from her flesh The warm blood gusheth out afresh. She is an unpolluted maid; 390 I must have this bleeding stay’d. From my banks I pluck this flower With holy hand, whose virtuous power Is at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw 395 A fairer mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber.—Virgin, speak.

Amo. Who hath restor’d my sense, given me new breath, And brought me back out of the arms of death?

God of the R. I have heal’d thy wounds.

Amo. Aye, me! 400

God of the R. Fear not him that succour’d thee. I am this fountain’s god: below, My waters to a river grow And ’twixt two banks with osiers set, That only prosper in the wet, 405 Through the meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on every side, Sometimes winding round about, To find the evenest channel out. And if thou wilt go with me, 410 Leaving mortal company, In the cool streams shalt thou lie, Free from harm as well as I: I will give thee for thy food No fish that useth in the mud; 415 But trout and pike, that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Through the pure streams may be seen; Orient pearl fit for a queen, Will I give, thy love to win, 420 And a shell to keep them in; Not a fish in all my brook That shall disobey thy look, But, when thou wilt, come sliding by, And from thy white hand take a fly: 425 And, to make thee understand How I can my waves command, They shall bubble, whilst I sing, Sweeter than the silver string. [Sings.]

THE SONG

Do not fear to put thy feet 430 Naked in the river sweet; Think not leech, or newt, or toad, Will bite thy foot when thou hast trod; Nor let the water rising high, As thou wad’st in, make thee cry 435 And sob; but ever live with me, And not a wave shall trouble thee.

Amo. Immortal power, that rul’st this holy flood, I know myself unworthy to be woo’d By thee, a god; for ere this, but for thee, 440 I should have shown my weak mortality: Besides, by holy oath betwixt us twain, I am betroth’d unto a shepherd-swain, Whose comely face, I know, the gods above May make me leave to see, but not to love. 445

God of the R. May he prove to thee as true Fairest virgin, now adieu: I must make my waters fly, Lest they leave their channels dry, And beasts that come unto the spring 450 Miss their morning’s watering; Which I would not; for of late All the neighbour-people sate On my banks, and from the fold Two white lambs of three weeks old 455 Offered to my deity; For which this year they shall be free From raging floods, that, as they pass, Leave their gravel in the grass; Nor shall their meads be overflown 460 When their grass is newly mown.

Amo. For thy kindness to me shown, Never from thy banks be blown Any tree, with windy force, Cross thy streams, to stop my course; 465 May no beast that comes to drink, With his horns cast down thy brink; May none that for thy fish do look, Cut thy banks to dam thy brook; Barefoot may no neighbour wade 470 In thy cool streams, wife nor maid, When the spawns on stones do lie, To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry!

God of the R. Thanks, virgin. I must down again. Thy wound will put thee to no pain. 475 Wonder not so soon ’t is gone; A holy hand was laid upon. [Descends.]

Amo. And I, unhappy born to be, Must follow him that flies from me. Exit.

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Act IV, Scene I — [3469]

Enter PERIGOT.

Peri. She is untrue, unconstant, and unkind; She’s gone, she’s gone! Blow high, thou northwest wind, And raise the sea to mountains; let the trees That dare oppose thy raging fury leese[3470] Their firm foundation; creep into the earth, 5 And shake the world, as at the monstrous birth Of some new prodigy; whilst I constant stand, Holding this trusty boar-spear in my hand, And falling thus upon it. [Offers to fall on his spear.]

Enter AMARILLIS running.

Amar. Stay thy dead-doing hand! Thou art too hot 10 Against thyself. Believe me, comely swain, If that thou diest, not all the showers of rain The heavy clouds send down can wash away That foul unmanly guilt the world will lay Upon thee. Yet thy love untainted stands: 15 Believe me, she is constant; not the sands Can be so hardly numb’red as she won. I do not trifle, shepherd; by the moon, And all those lesser lights our eyes do view, All that I told thee, Perigot, is true. 20 Then, be a free man; put away despair And will to die; smooth gently up that fair Dejected forehead; be as when those eyes Took the first heat.

Peri. Alas, he double dies That would believe, but cannot! ’T is not well You keep me thus from dying, here to dwell 26 With many worse companions. But, oh, death! I am not yet enamour’d of this breath So much but I dare leave it; ’t is not pain In forcing of a wound, nor after-gain 30 Of many days, can hold me from my will. ’T is not myself, but Amoret, bids kill.

Amar. Stay but a little, little; but one hour; And if I do not show thee, through the power Of herbs and words I have, as dark as night, 35 Myself turn’d to thy Amoret, in sight, Her very figure, and the robe she wears, With tawny buskins, and the hook she bears Of thine own carving, where your names are set, Wrought underneath with many a curious fret, The primrose-chaplet, tawdry-lace,[3471] and ring, 41 Thou gav’st her for her singing, with each thing Else that she wears about her, let me feel The first fell stroke of that revenging steel!

Peri. I am contented, if there be a hope, 45 To give it entertainment for the scope Of one poor hour. Go; you shall find me next Under yon shady beech, even thus perplext, And thus believing.

Amar. Bind, before I go, Thy soul by Pan unto me, not to do 50 Harm or outrageous wrong upon thy life, Till my return.

Peri. By Pan, and by the strife He had with Phoebus for the mastery, When golden Midas judg’d their minstrelsy, I will not! Exeunt [severally]. 55

[SCENE II.][3472]

Enter Satyr with ALEXIS.

Sat. Softly gliding as I go, With this burthen full of woe, Through still silence of the night Guided by the glow-worm’s light, Hither am I come at last. 5 Many a thicket have I past; Not a twig that durst deny me, Not a bush that durst descry me To the little bird that sleeps On the slender spray; nor creeps 10 That hardy worm with pointed tail, But if I be under sail, Flying faster than the wind, Leaving all the clouds behind, But doth hide her tender head 15 In some hollow tree, or bed Of seeded nettles; not a hare Can be started from his fare By my footing; nor a wish Is more sudden, nor a fish 20 Can be found with greater ease Cut the vast unbounded seas, Leaving neither print nor sound, Than I, when nimbly on the ground I measure many a league an hour. 25 But, behold, the happy power[3473] That must ease me of my charge, And by holy hand enlarge The soul of this sad man, that yet Lies fast bound in deadly fit: 30 Heaven and great Pan succour it!— Hail, thou beauty of the bower, Whiter than the paramour Of my master! Let me crave Thy virtuous help, to keep from grave 35 This poor mortal, that here lies, Waiting when the Destinies Will undo[3474] his thread of life: View the wound, by cruel knife Trencht into him. 40

Clo. [coming from the bower.] What art thou call’st me from my holy rites, And with the feared name of death affrights My tender ears? Speak me thy name and will.

Sat. I am the Satyr that did fill Your lap with early fruit; and will, 45 When I hap to gather more, Bring you better and more store.[3475] Yet I come not empty now: See, a blossom from the bough; But beshrew his heart that pull’d it, 50 And his perfect sight that cull’d it From the other springing blooms! For a sweeter youth the grooms Cannot show me, nor the downs, Nor the many neighbouring towns. 55 Low in yonder glade I found him; Softly in mine arms I bound him; Hither have I brought him sleeping In a trance, his wounds fresh weeping, In remembrance such youth may 60 Spring and perish in a day.

Clo. Satyr, they wrong thee that do term thee rude; Though thou be’st outward-rough and tawny-hu’d, Thy manners are as gentle and as fair As his who brags himself born only heir 65 To all humanity.—Let me see thy wound: This herb will stay the current, being bound Fast to the orifice, and this restrain Ulcers and swellings, and such inward pain As the cold air hath forc’d into the sore; 70 This to draw out such putrefying gore As inward falls.

Sat. Heaven grant it may do good!

Clo. Fairly wipe away the blood. Hold him gently, till I fling 75 Water of a virtuous[3476] spring On his temples; turn him twice To the moonbeams; pinch him thrice; That the labouring soul may draw From his great eclipse.

Sat. I saw 80 His eyelids moving.

Clo. Give him breath; All the danger of cold death Now is vanisht! With this plaster And this unction do I master All the fest’red ill that may 85 Give him grief another day.

Sat. See, he gathers up his sprite, And begins to hunt for light; Now ’a gaps and breathes again: How the blood runs to the vein 90 That erst was empty!

Alexis. O my heart! My dearest, dearest Cloe! Oh, the smart Runs through my side! I feel some pointed thing Pass through my bowels, sharper than the sting Of scorpion.—— 95 Pan, preserve me!—What are you? Do not hurt me: I am true To my Cloe, though she fly, And leave me to this destiny. There she stands, and will not lend 100 Her smooth white hand to help her friend. But I am much mistaken, for that face Bears more austerity and modest grace, More reproving and more awe, Than these eyes yet ever saw 105 In my Cloe. Oh, my pain Eagerly renews again! Give me your help for his sake you love best.

Clo. Shepherd, thou canst not possibly take rest, Till thou hast laid aside all heats, desires, 110 Provoking thoughts that stir up lusty fires, Commerce with wanton eyes, strong blood, and will To execute; these must be purg’d until The vein grow whiter; then repent, and pray Great Pan to keep you from the like decay, 115 And I shall undertake your cure with ease; Till when, this virtuous plaster will displease[3477] Your tender sides. Give me your hand, and rise! Help him a little, Satyr; for his thighs Yet are feeble.

Alexis. [rising.] Sure, I have lost much blood.

Sat. ’T is no matter; ’t was not good. 121 Mortal, you must leave your wooing: Though there be a joy in doing, Yet it brings much grief behind it; They best feel it, that do find it. 125

Clo. Come, bring him in; I will attend his sore.— When you are well, take heed you lust no more. [ALEXIS is led into the bower.]

Sat. Shepherd, see, what comes of kissing; By my head, ’t were better missing. Brightest, if there be remaining 130 Any service, without feigning I will do it; were I set To catch the nimble wind, or get Shadows gliding on the green, Or to steal from the great queen 135 Of fairies all her beauty; I would do it, so much duty Do I owe those precious eyes.

Clo. I thank thee, honest Satyr. If the cries Of any other, that be hurt or ill 140 Draw thee unto them, prithee, do thy will To bring them hither.

Sat. I will; and when the weather Serves to angle in the brook, I will bring a silver hook, 145 With a line of finest silk, And a rod as white as milk, To deceive the little fish. So I take my leave, and wish On this bower may ever dwell 150 Spring and summer!

Clo. Friend, farewell. Exeunt.

[SCENE III.][3478]

Enter AMORET.

Amo. This place is ominous; for here I lost My love and almost life, and since have crost All these woods over; ne’er a nook or dell, Where any little bird or beast doth dwell, But I have sought it; ne’er a bending brow 5 Of any hill, or glade the wind sings through, Nor a green bank nor shade where shepherds use To sit and riddle, sweetly pipe, or choose Their valentines, that I have mist, to find My love in. Perigot! Oh, too unkind, 10 Why hast thou fled me? Whither art thou gone? How have I wrong’d thee. Was my love alone To thee worthy this scorn’d recompense? ’T is well; I am content to feel it. But I tell Thee, shepherd, and these lusty woods shall hear, 15 Forsaken Amoret is yet as clear Of any stranger fire, as heaven is From foul corruption, or the deep abyss From light and happiness; and thou mayst know All this for truth, and how that fatal blow 20 Thou gav’st me, never from desert of mine Fell on my life, but from suspect of thine, Or fury more than madness. Therefore here, Since I have lost my life, my love, my dear, Upon this cursed place, and on this green 25 That first divorc’d us, shortly shall be seen A sight of so great pity, that each eye Shall daily spend his spring in memory Of my untimely fall.

Enter AMARILLIS.

Amar. [Aside.] I am not blind, Nor is it through the working of my mind 30 That this shows Amoret. Forsake me, all That dwell upon the soul, but what men call Wonder, or, more than wonder, miracle! For, sure, so strange as this, the oracle Never gave answer of; it passeth dreams, 35 Or madmen’s fancy, when the many streams Of new imaginations rise and fall. ’T is but an hour since these ears heard her call For pity to young Perigot; whilst he Directed by his fury, bloodily 40 Lanc’d up her breast, which bloodless fell and cold; And, if belief may credit what was told, After all this, the Melancholy Swain Took her into his arms, being almost slain, And to the bottom of the holy well 45 Flung her, for ever with the waves to dwell. ’T is she, the very same; ’t is Amoret, And living yet; the great powers will not let Their virtuous love be crost.—Maid, wipe away Those heavy drops of sorrow, and allay 50 The storm that yet goes high, which, not deprest, Breaks heart and life and all before it rest. Thy Perigot——

Amo. Where, which is Perigot?

Amar. Sits there below, lamenting much, God wot, Thee and thy fortune. Go, and comfort him; 55 And thou shalt find him underneath a brim Of sailing pines, that edge yon mountain in.

Amo. I go, I run. Heaven grant me I may win His soul again! Exit.

Enter Sullen Shepherd.

Sull. Shep. Stay, Amarillis, stay! You are too fleet; ’t is two hours yet to day. 60 I have perform’d my promise; let us sit And warm our bloods together, till the fit Come lively on us.

Amar. Friend, you are too keen; The morning riseth, and we shall be seen; Forbear a little.

Sull. Shep. I can stay no longer. 65

Amar. Hold, shepherd, hold! Learn not to be a wronger Of your word. Was not your promise laid, To break their loves first?

Sull. Shep. I have done it, maid.

Amar. No; they are yet unbroken, met again, And are as hard to part yet as the stain 70 Is from the finest lawn.

Sull. Shep. I say they are Now at this present parted, and so far That they shall never meet.

Amar. Swain, ’t is not so; For do but to yon hanging mountain go, And there believe your eyes.

Sull. Shep. You do but hold 75 Off with delays and trifles.—Farewell, cold And frozen bashfulness, unfit for men!— Thus I salute thee, virgin! [Attempts to seize her.]

Amar. And thus, then, I bid you follow: catch me if you can! Exit.

Sull. Shep. And, if I stay behind, I am no man! Exit, running after her. 80

[SCENE IV.][3479]

Enter PERIGOT.

Peri. Night, do not steal away; I woo thee yet To hold a hard hand o’er the rusty bit That guides thy lazy team. Go back again, Boötes, thou that driv’st thy frozen wain Round as a ring, and bring a second night, 5 To hide my sorrows from the coming light; Let not the eyes of men stare on my face, And read my falling; give me some black place, Where never sunbeam shot his wholesome light, That I may sit and pour out my sad sprite 10 Like running water, never to be known After the forced fall and sound is gone.

Enter Amoret, looking for PERIGOT.

Amo. This is the bottom.[3480]—Speak, if thou be here, My Perigot! Thy Amoret, thy dear, Calls on thy loved name.

Peri. What art thou dare 15 Tread these forbidden paths, where death and care Dwell on the face of darkness?

Amo. ’T is thy friend, Thy Amoret, come hither, to give end To these consumings. Look up, gentle boy: I have forgot those pains and dear annoy 20 I suffer’d for thy sake, and am content To be thy love again. Why hast thou rent Those curled locks, where I have often hung Ribands and damask-roses, and have flung Waters distill’d, to make thee fresh and gay, 25 Sweeter than nosegays on a bridal day? Why dost thou cross thine arms, and hang thy face Down to thy bosom, letting fall apace From those two little heavens, upon the ground, Showers of more price, more orient, and more round, 30 Than those that hang upon the moon’s pale brow? Cease these complainings, shepherd: I am now The same I ever was, as kind and free, And can forgive before you ask of me; Indeed, I can and will.

Peri. So spoke my fair! 35 Oh, you great working powers of earth and air, Water and forming fire, why have you lent Your hidden virtues of so ill intent? Even such a face, so fair, so bright of hue, Had Amoret: such words, so smooth and new, Came flowing from her tongue; such was her eye, 41 And such the pointed sparkle that did fly Forth like a bleeding shaft; all is the same, The robe and buskins, painted hook, and frame Of all her body. Oh me, Amoret! 45

Amo. Shepherd, what means this riddle? Why hath set So strong a difference ’twixt myself and me, That I am grown another? Look, and see The ring thou gav’st me, and about my wrist That curious bracelet thou thyself dist twist 50 From those fair tresses. Know’st thou Amoret? Hath not some newer love forc’d thee forget Thy ancient faith?

Peri. Still nearer to my love! These be the very words she oft did prove Upon my temper: so she still would take 55 Wonder into her face, and silent make Signs with her head and hand, as who would say, “Shepherd, remember this another day.”

Amo. Am I not Amoret? Where was I lost? Can there be heaven, and time, and men, and most 60 Of these unconstant? Faith, where art thou fled? Are all the vows and protestations dead, The hands held up, the wishes and the heart? Is there not one remaining, not a part Of all these to be found? Why, then, I see 65 Men never knew that virtue, constancy.

Peri. Men ever were most blessed, till cross fate Brought love and women forth, unfortunate To all that ever tasted of their smiles; Whose actions are all double, full of wiles; 70 Like to the subtle hare, that ’fore the hounds Makes many turnings, leaps, and many rounds, This way and that way, to deceive the scent Of her pursuers.

Amo. ’T is but to prevent Their speedy coming on, that seek her fall; 75 The hands of cruel men, more bestial, And of a nature more refusing good Than beasts themselves, or fishes of the flood.

Peri. Thou art all these, and more than nature meant When she created all; frowns, joys, content; 80 Extreme fire for an hour, and presently Colder than sleepy poison, or the sea Upon whose face sits a continual frost; Your actions ever driven to the most, Then down again as low, that none can find 85 The rise or falling of a woman’s mind.

Amo. Can there be any age, or days, or time, Or tongues of men, guilty so great a crime As wronging simple maid? Oh, Perigot, Thou that wast yesterday without a blot; 90 Thou that wast every good and every thing That men call blessed; thou that wast the spring From whence our looser grooms drew all their best; Thou that wast always just and always blest In faith and promise; thou that hadst the name 95 Of virtuous given thee, and made good the same Ev’n from thy cradle; thou that wast that all That men delighted in! Oh, what a fall Is this, to have been so, and now to be The only best in wrong and infamy! 100 And I to live to know this! and by me, That lov’d thee dearer than mine eyes, or that Which we esteem’d our honour, virgin state! Dearer than swallows love the early morn, Or dogs of chase the sound of merry horn; 105 Dearer than thou canst love thy new love, if thou hast Another, and far dearer than the last; Dearer than thou canst love thyself, though all The self-love were within thee that did fall 109 With that coy swain that now is made a flower, For whose dear sake Echo weeps many a shower! And am I thus rewarded for my flame? Lov’d worthily to get a wanton’s name? Come, thou forsaken willow, wind my head, And noise it to the world, my love is dead! 115 I am forsaken, I am cast away, And left for every lazy groom to say I was unconstant, light, and sooner lost Than the quick clouds we see, or the chill frost When the hot sun beats on it! Tell me yet, 120 Canst thou not love again thy Amoret?

Peri. Thou art not worthy of that blessed name; I must not know thee. Fling thy wanton flame Upon some lighter blood that may be hot With words and feigned passions; Perigot 125 Was ever yet unstain’d, and shall not now Stoop to the meltings of a borrowed brow.

Amo. Then hear me, Heaven, to whom I call for right, And you, fair twinkling stars, that crown the night; 129 And hear me, woods, and silence of this place, And ye, sad hours, that move a sullen pace; Hear me, ye shadows, that delight to dwell In horrid darkness, and ye powers of hell, Whilst I breathe out my last! I am that maid, That yet-untainted Amoret, that play’d 135 The careless prodigal, and gave away My soul to this young man that now dares say I am a stranger, not the same, more vild;[3481] And thus with much belief I was beguil’d. I am that maid, that have delay’d, deni’d, 140 And almost scorn’d the loves of all that tri’d To win me, but this swain; and yet confess I have been woo’d by many with no less Soul of affection; and have often had Rings, belts, and cracknels,[3482] sent me from the lad 145 That feeds his flocks down westward; lambs and doves By young Alexis; Daphnis sent me gloves; All which I gave to thee: nor these nor they That sent them did I smile on, or e’er lay Up to my after-memory. But why 150 Do I resolve to grieve, and not to die? Happy had been the stroke thou gav’st, if home; By this time had I found a quiet room, Where every slave is free, and every breast, That living bred new care, now lies at rest; 155 And thither will poor Amoret.

Peri. Thou must. Was ever any man so loth to trust His eyes as I? or was there ever yet Any so like as this to Amoret? For whose dear sake I promise, if there be 160 A living soul within thee, thus to free Thy body from it? He hurts her again.

Amo. [falling.] So, this work hath end. Farewell, and live; be constant to thy friend That loves thee next.

Enter Satyr; PERIGOT runs off.

Sat. See, the day begins to break, 165 And the light shoots like a streak Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold, Whilst the morning doth unfold; Now the birds begin to rouse, And the squirrel from the boughs 170 Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit. The early lark, that erst was mute, Carols to the rising day Many a note and many a lay: Therefore here I end my watch, 175 Lest the wand’ring swain should catch Harm, or lose himself.

Amo. Ah me!

Sat. Speak again, whate’er thou be; I am ready; speak, I say; By the dawning of the day, 180 By the power of night and Pan, I enforce thee speak again!

Amo. Oh, I am most unhappy.

Sat. Yet more blood! Sure, these wanton swains are wood.[3483] 185 Can there be a hand or heart Dare commit so vild a part As this murder? By the moon, That hid herself when this was done, Never was a sweeter face: 190 I will bear her to the place Where my goddess keeps, and crave Her to give her life or grave. Exit [carrying AMORET].

[SCENE V.][3484]

Enter CLORIN.

Clo. Here whilst one patient takes his rest secure, I steal abroad to do another cure.— Pardon, thou buried body of my love, That from thy side I dare so soon remove; I will not prove unconstant, nor will leave 5 Thee for an hour alone. When I deceive My first-made vow, the wildest of the wood Tear me, and o’er thy grave let out my blood! I go by wit to cure a lover’s pain, Which no herb can; being done, I ’ll come again. Exit. 10

Enter THENOT.

The. Poor shepherd, in this shade for ever lie, And seeing thy fair Clorin’s cabin, die! [Lying down.] Oh, hapless love, which being answer’d, ends! And, as a little infant cries and bends His tender brows, when, rolling of his eye, 15 He hath espi’d something that glisters nigh, Which he would have; yet, give it him, away He throws it straight, and cries afresh to play With something else, such my affection, set On that which I should loathe, if I could get. 20

Re-enter CLORIN.

Clo. [Aside.] See, where he lies! Did ever man but he Love any woman for her constancy To her dead lover, which she needs must end Before she can allow him for her friend, And he himself must needs the cause destroy 25 For which he loves, before he can enjoy? Poor shepherd, Heaven grant I at once may free Thee from thy pain, and keep my loyalty!— Shepherd, look up.

The. Thy brightness doth amaze; So Phoebus may at noon bid mortals gaze; 30 Thy glorious constancy appears so bright, I dare not meet the beams with my weak sight.

Clo. Why dost thou pine away thyself for me?

The. Why dost thou keep such spotless constancy?

Clo. Thou holy shepherd, see what for thy sake 35 Clorin, thy Clorin, now dare undertake. He starts up.

The. Stay there, thou constant Clorin! If there be Yet any part of woman left in thee, To make thee light, think yet before thou speak.

Clo. See, what a holy vow for thee I break; I, that already have my fame far spread 41 For being constant to my lover dead.

The. Think yet, dear Clorin, of your love; how true, If you had died, he would have been to you.

Clo. Yet, all I ’ll lose for thee——

The. Think but how blest 45 A constant woman is above the rest!

Clo. And offer up myself, here on this ground, To be dispos’d by thee.

The. Why dost thou wound, His heart with malice against women more, That hated all the sex but thee before? 50 How much more pleasant had it been to me To die than to behold this change in thee! Yet, yet return; let not the woman sway!

Clo. Insult not on her now, nor use delay, Who for thy sake hath ventur’d all her fame. 55

The. Thou hast not ventur’d, but bought certain shame; Your sex’s curse, foul falsehood, must and shall, I see, once in your lives, light on you all. I hate thee now. Yet turn!

Clo. Be just to me: Shall I at once lose both my fame and thee? 60

The. Thou hadst no fame; that which thou didst like good Was but thy appetite that sway’d thy blood For that time to the best: for as a blast That through a house comes, usually doth cast Things out of order, yet by chance may come, And blow some one thing to his proper room, 66 So did thy appetite, and not thy zeal, Sway thee by chance to do some one thing well. Yet turn!

Clo. Thou dost but try me, if I would Forsake thy dear embraces for my old 70 Love’s, though he were alive: but do not fear.

The. I do contemn thee now, and dare come near. And gaze upon thee; for methinks that grace, Austerity, which sate upon that face, Is gone, and thou like others. False maid, see. This is the gain of foul inconstancy! Exit. 76

Clo. ’T is done: great Pan, I give thee thanks for it!— What art could not have heal’d is cur’d by wit.

Re-enter THENOT.

The. Will ye be constant yet? Will ye remove Into the cabin to your buried love? 80

Clo. No, let me die, but by thy side remain.

The. There ’s none shall know that thou didst ever stain Thy worthy strictness, but shall honour’d be, And I will lie again under this tree, And pine and die for thee with more delight 85 Than I have sorrow now to know thee light.

Clo. Let me have thee, and I ’ll be where thou wilt.

The. Thou art of women’s race, and full of guilt. Farewell all hope of that sex! Whilst I thought There was one good, I fear’d to find one naught: But since their minds I all alike espy, 91 Henceforth I ’ll choose, as others, by mine eye. Exit.

Clo. Blest be ye powers that gave such quick redress, And for my labours sent so good success! I rather choose, though I a woman be, 95 He should speak ill of all than die for me. [Exit into the bower.]

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Act V, Scene I — [3485]

Enter Priest [of Pan] and Old Shepherd.

Priest. Shepherds, rise, and shake off sleep! See, the blushing morn doth peep Through the windows, whilst the sun To the mountain-tops is run, Gilding all the vales below 5 With his rising flames, which grow Greater by his climbing still. Up, ye lazy grooms, and fill Bag and bottle for the field! Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield 10 To the bitter north-east wind. Call the maidens up, and find Who lay longest, that she may Go without a friend all day; Then reward your dogs, and pray 15 Pan to keep you from decay: So unfold, and then away! What, not a shepherd stirring? Sure, the grooms Have found their beds too easy, or the rooms Fill’d with such new delight and heat, that they 20 Have both forgot their hungry sheep and day. Knock, that they may remember what a shame Sloth and neglect lays on a shepherd’s name.

Old Shep. [after knocking at several doors.] It is to little purpose; not a swain This night hath known his lodging here, or lain Within these cotes; the woods, or some near town 26 That is a neighbour to the bordering down, Hath drawn them thither ’bout some lusty sport, Or spiced wassail bowl, to which resort All the young men and maids of many a cote, 30 Whilst the trim minstrel strikes his merry note.

Priest. God pardon sin!—Show me the way that leads To any of their haunts.

Old Shep. This to the meads, And that down to the woods.

Priest. Then, this for me. Come, shepherd, let me crave your company. Exeunt. 35

[SCENE II.[3486]

Enter CLORIN in her cabin, ALEXIS with her.

Clo. Now your thoughts are almost pure, And your wound begins to cure; Strive to banish all that ’s vain, Lest it should break out again.

Alexis. Eternal thanks to thee, thou holy maid! 5 I find my former wand’ring thoughts well staid Through thy wise precepts: and my outward pain By thy choice herbs is almost gone again. Thy sex’s vice and virtue are reveal’d At once; for what one hurt another heal’d. 10

Clo. May thy grief more appease! Relapses are the worst disease. Take heed how you in thought offend; So mind and body both will mend.

Enter Satyr, carrying AMORET.

Amo. Be’st thou the wildest creature of the wood, 15 That bear’st me thus away, drown’d in my blood, And dying, know I cannot injur’d be; I am a maid; let that name fight for me.

Sat. Fairest virgin, do not fear Me, that doth thy body bear, 20 Not to hurt, but heal’d to be; Men are ruder far than we.— See, fair goddess, in the wood They have let out yet more blood. Some savage man hath struck her breast, 25 So soft and white, that no wild beast Durst ha’ toucht, asleep or ’wake; So sweet, that adder, newt, or snake, Would have lain, from arm to arm, On her bosom to be warm 30 All a night, and, being hot, Gone away, and stung her not. Quickly clap herbs to her breast. A man, sure, is a kind of beast.

Clo. With spotless hand on spotless breast 35 I put these herbs, to give thee rest; Which till I heal thee, will abide, If both be pure; if not, off slide.— See, it falls off from the wound! Shepherdess, thou art not sound, 40 Full of lust.

Sat. Who would have thought it? So fair a face!

Clo. Why, that hath brought it.

Amo. For aught I know or think, these words my last, Yet, Pan so help me as my thoughts are chaste!

Clo. And so may Pan bless this my cure, 45 As all my thoughts are just and pure! Some uncleanness nigh doth lurk, That will not let my medicines work.— Satyr, search if thou canst find it.

Sat. Here away methinks I wind[3487] it: 50 Stronger yet.—Oh, here they be; Here, here, in a hollow tree, Two fond mortals have I found.

Clo. Bring them out; they are unsound.

Enter CLOE and DAPHNIS.

Sat. By the fingers thus I wring ye, 55 To my goddess thus I bring ye; Strife is vain, come gently in.— I scented them; they ’re full of sin.

Clo. Hold, Satyr; take this glass, Sprinkle over all the place, 60 Purge the air from lustful breath, To save this shepherdess from death: And stand you still whilst I do dress Her wound, for fear the pain increase.

Sat. From this glass I throw a drop 65 Of crystal water on the top Of every grass, on flowers a pair: Send a fume, and keep the air Pure and wholesome, sweet and blest, Till this virgin’s wound be drest.— 70

Clo. Satyr, help to bring her in.

Sat. By Pan, I think she hath no sin, [Carrying AMORET into the bower.] She is so light.—Lie on these leaves. Sleep, that mortal sense deceives, Crown thine eyes and ease thy pain; 75 May’st thou soon be well again!

Clo. Satyr, bring the shepherd near; Try him, if his mind be clear.

Sat. Shepherd, come.

Daph. My thoughts are pure.

Sat. The better trial to endure. 80

Clo. In this flame his finger thrust, Which will burn him if he lust; But if not, away will turn, As loth unspotted flesh to burn.— [Satyr applies DAPHNIS’S finger to the taper.] See, it gives back;[3488] let him go, 85 Farewell, mortal: keep thee so. [Exit DAPHNIS.] Stay, fair nymph; fly not so fast; We must try if you be chaste.— Here ’s a hand that quakes for fear; Sure, she will not prove so clear. 90

Clo. Hold her finger to the flame; That will yield her praise or shame.

Sat. To her doom she dares not stand,

[Applies CLOE’S finger to the taper.]

But plucks away her tender hand; And the taper darting sends 95 His hot beams at her fingers’ ends.— Oh, thou art foul within, and hast A mind, if nothing else, unchaste!

Alex. Is not that Cloe? ’T is my love, ’t is she! Cloe, fair Cloe!

Cloe. My Alexis!

Alex. He. 100

Cloe. Let me embrace thee.

Clo. Take her hence, Lest her sight disturb his sense.

Alex. Take not her; take my life first!

Clo. See his wound again is burst! Keep her near, here in the wood, 105 Till I ha’ stopt these streams of blood.

[Satyr leads off CLOE.]

Soon again he ease shall find, If I can but still his mind. This curtain thus I do display, To keep the piercing air away. 110 [Draws a curtain before the bower.]

[SCENE III.][3489]

Enter Old Shepherd and Priest of Pan.

Priest. Sure, they are lost for ever; ’t is in vain To find them out with trouble and much pain That have a ripe desire and forward will To fly the company of all but ill. What shall be counsell’d now? Shall we retire, Or constant follow still that first desire 6 We had to find them?

Old Shep. Stay a little while; For, if the morning’s mist do not beguile My sight with shadows, sure I see a swain: One of this jolly troop ’s come back again. 10

Enter THENOT.

Priest. Dost thou not blush, young shepherd, to be known Thus without care leaving thy flocks alone, And following what desire and present blood Shapes out before thy burning sense for good; Having forgot what tongue hereafter may 15 Tell to the world thy falling off, and say Thou art regardless both of good and shame, Spurning at virtue and a virtuous name? And like a glorious desperate man, that buys A poison of much price, by which he dies, 20 Dost there lay out for lust, whose only gain Is foul disease, with present age and pain, And then a grave? These be the fruits that grow In such hot veins, that only beat to know Where they may take most ease, and grow ambitious 25 Through their own wanton fire and pride delicious.

The. Right holy sir, I have not known this night What the smooth face of mirth was, or the sight Of any looseness; music, joy, and ease, Have been to me as bitter drugs to please 30 A stomach lost with weakness, not a game That I am skill’d at throughly: nor a dame, Went her tongue smoother than the feet of time, Her beauty ever-living like the rhyme Our blessed Tityrus[3490] did sing of yore; 35 No, were she more enticing than the store Of fruitful summer, when the loaden tree Bids the faint traveller be bold and free; ’T were but to me like thunder ’gainst the bay, Whose lightning may enclose, but never stay 40 Upon his charmed branches; such am I Against the catching flames of woman’s eye.

Priest. Then, wherefore hast thou wand’red?

The. ’T was a vow That drew me out last night, which I have now Strictly perform’d, and homewards go to give 45 Fresh pasture to my sheep, that they may live.

Priest. ’T is good to hear you, shepherd, if the heart In this well-sounding music bear his part. Where have you left the rest?

The. I have not seen, Since yesternight we met upon this green 50 To fold our flocks up, any of that train; Yet have I walkt those woods round, and have lain All this long night under an aged tree; Yet neither wand’ring shepherd did I see, Or shepherdess; or drew into mine ear 55 The sound of living thing, unless it were The nightingale, among the thick-leav’d spring That sits alone in sorrow, and doth sing Whole nights away in mourning; or the owl, Or our great enemy,[3491] that still doth howl 60 Against the moon’s cold beams.

Priest. Go, and beware Of after-falling.

The. Father, ’t is my care. Exit.

Enter DAPHNIS.

Old Shep. Here comes another straggler; sure I see A shame in this young shepherd.—Daphnis?

Daph. He.

Priest. Where hast thou left the rest, that should have been 65 Long before this grazing upon the green Their yet-imprison’d flocks?

Daph. Thou holy man, Give me a little breathing, till I can Be able to unfold what I have seen; Such horror, that the like hath never been 70 Known to the ear of shepherd. Oh, my heart Labours a double motion to impart So heavy tidings! You all know the bower Where the chaste Clorin lives, by whose great power Sick men and cattle have been often cur’d; 75 There lovely Amoret, that was assur’d[3492] To lusty Perigot, bleeds out her life, Forc’d by some iron hand and fatal knife; And, by her, young Alexis.

Enter AMARILLIS, running from her Sullen Shepherd.

Amar. If there be Ever a neighbour-brook or hollow tree, 80 Receive my body, close me up from lust That follows at my heels! Be ever just, Thou god of shepherds, Pan, for her dear sake That loves the rivers’ brinks, and still doth shake In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit; 85 Let me be made a reed, and, ever mute, Nod to the waters’ fall, whilst every blast Sings through my slender leaves that I was chaste!

Priest. This is a night of wonder.—Amarill, Be comforted: the holy gods are still 90 Revengers of these wrongs.

Amar. Thou blessed man, Honour’d upon these plains, and lov’d of Pan, Hear me, and save from endless infamy My yet-unblasted flower, virginity! By all the garlands that have crown’d that head, 95 By thy chaste office, and the marriage-bed That still is blessed by thee; by all the rites Due to our god, and by those virgin-lights That burn before his altar; let me not Fall from my former state, to gain the blot 100 That never shall be purg’d! I am not now That wanton Amarillis: here I vow To Heaven, and thee, grave father, if I may Scape this unhappy night, to know the day A virgin, never after to endure 105 The tongues or company of men unpure! I hear him come; save me!

Priest. Retire a while Behind this bush, till we have known that vile Abuser of young maidens. [They retire.]

Enter Sullen [Shepherd].

Sull. Shep. Stay thy pace, Most lov’d Amarillis; let the chase 110 Grow calm and milder: fly me not so fast: I fear the pointed brambles have unlac’d Thy golden buskins. Turn again, and see Thy shepherd follow, that is strong and free, Able to give thee all content and ease. 115 I am not bashful, virgin; I can please At first encounter, hug thee in mine arm, And give thee many kisses, soft and warm As those the sun prints on the smiling cheek Of plums or mellow peaches; I am sleek 120 And smooth as Neptune when stern Aeolus Locks up his surly winds, and nimbly thus Can show my active youth. Why dost thou fly? Remember, Amarillis, it was I That kill’d Alexis for thy sake, and set 125 An everlasting hate ’twixt Amoret And her beloved Perigot; ’t was I That drown’d her in the well, where she must lie Till time shall leave to be. Then, turn again, 129 Turn with thy open arms, and clip[3493] the swain That hath perform’d all this; turn, turn, I say; I must not be deluded.

Priest [coming forward.] Monster, stay! Thou that art like a canker to the state Thou liv’st and breath’st in, eating with debate Through every honest bosom, forcing still 135 The veins of any that may serve thy will; Thou that hast offer’d with a sinful hand To seize upon this virgin, that doth stand Yet trembling here!

Sull. Shep. Good holiness, declare What had the danger been, if being bare 140 I had embrac’d her; tell me, by your art, What coming wonders would that sight impart.

Priest. Lust and a branded soul.

Sull. Shep. Yet, tell me more; Hath not our mother Nature, for her store And great encrease, said it is good and just, 145 And will’d that every living creature must Beget his like?

Priest. You’re better read than I, I must confess, in blood and lechery.— Now to the bower, and bring this beast along, Where he may suffer penance for his wrong. Exeunt. 150

[SCENE IV.][3494]

Enter PERIGOT, with his hand bloody.

Peri. Here will I wash it in the morning’s dew, Which she on every little grass doth strew In silver drops against the sun’s appear;[3495] ’T is holy water, and will make me clear. My hand will not be cleans’d.—My wronged love, 5 If thy chaste spirit in the air yet move, Look mildly down on him that yet doth stand All full of guilt, thy blood upon his hand; And though I struck thee undeservedly, Let my revenge on her that injur’d thee 10 Make less a fault which I intended not. And let these dew-drops wash away my spot!— It will not cleanse. Oh, to what sacred flood Shall I resort, to wash away this blood? Amidst these trees the holy Clorin dwells, 15 In a low cabin of cut boughs, and heals All wounds: to her I will myself address, And my rash faults repentantly confess; Perhaps she ’ll find a means, by art or prayer, To make my hand, with chaste blood stained, fair. 20 That done, not far hence, underneath some tree I ’ll have a little cabin built, since she Whom I ador’d is dead; there will I give Myself to strictness, and, like Clorin, live. Exit.

[SCENE V.][3496]

The curtain is drawn, CLORIN appears sitting in the cabin, AMORET sitting on the one side of her, ALEXIS and CLOE on the other; the Satyr standing by.

Clo. Shepherd, once more your blood is staid: Take example by this maid, Who is heal’d ere you be pure; So hard it is lewd lust to cure. Take heed, then, how you turn your eye 5 On this[3497] other lustfully.— And, shepherdess, take heed lest you Move his willing eye thereto: Let no wring, nor pinch, nor smile, Of yours his weaker sense beguile.— 10 Is your love yet true and chaste, And for ever so to last?

Alexis. I have forgot all vain desires, All looser thoughts, ill-temp’red fires: True love I find a pleasant fume, 15 Whose moderate heat can ne’er consume.

Cloe. And I a new fire feel in me, Whose chaste flame is not quencht to be.

Clo. Join your hands with modest touch, And for ever keep you such. 20

Enter PERIGOT.

Peri. [Aside.] Yon is her cabin: thus far off I ’ll stand, And call her forth; for my unhallowed hand I dare not bring so near yon sacred place.— Clorin, come forth, and do a timely grace To a poor swain.

Clo. What art thou that dost call? 25 Clorin is ready to do good to all: Come near.

Peri. I dare not.

Clo. Satyr, see Who it is that calls on me.

Sat. [coming from the bower.] There, at hand, some swain doth stand, Stretching out a bloody hand. 30

Peri. Come, Clorin, bring thy holy waters clear, To wash my hand.

Clo. [coming out.] What wonders have been here To-night! Stretch forth thy hand, young swain; Wash and rub it, whilst I rain Holy water.

Peri. Still you pour, 35 But my hand will never scour.

Clo. Satyr, bring him to the bower: We will try the sovereign power Of other waters.

Sat. Mortal, sure, ’T is the blood of maiden pure 40 That stains thee so.

The Satyr leadeth him to the bower, where he spieth AMORET, and kneeling down, she knoweth him.

Peri. Whate’er thou be, Be’st thou her sprite, or some divinity, That in her shape thinks good to walk this grove, Pardon poor Perigot!

Amo. I am thy love, Thy Amoret, for evermore thy love: 45 Strike once more on my naked breast, I’ll prove As constant still. Oh, couldst thou love me yet, How soon could I my former griefs forget!

Peri. So over-great with joy that you live, now I am, that no desire of knowing how 50 Doth seize me. Hast thou still power to forgive?

Amo. Whilst thou hast power to love, or I to live: More welcome now than hadst thou never gone Astray from me!

Peri. And when thou lov’st alone, 54 And not I [thee,] death, or some ling’ring pain That’s worse, light on me!

Clo. Now your stain Perhaps will cleans’d be;[3498] once again. See, the blood that erst did stay, With the water drops away. All the powers again are pleas’d, 60 And with this new knot are appeas’d. Join your hands, and rise together: Pan be blest that brought you hither! Enter Priest of Pan and Old Shepherd. Go back again, whate’er thou art; unless Smooth maiden-thoughts possess thee, do not press 65 This hallowed ground.—Go, Satyr, take his hand, And give him present trial.

Sat. Mortal, stand, Till by fire I have made known Whether thou be such a one That mayst freely tread this place. 70 Hold thy hand up.—Never was [Applying the Priest’s hand to the taper.] More untainted flesh than this. Fairest, he is full of bliss.

Clo. Then boldly speak, why dost thou seek this place?

Priest. First, honour’d virgin, to behold thy face, 75 Where all good dwells that is; next, for to try The truth of late report was given to me,— Those shepherds that have met with foul mischance, Through much neglect and more ill governance, Whether the wounds they have may yet endure 80 The open air, or stay a longer cure; And lastly, what the doom may be shall light Upon those guilty wretches, through whose spite All this confusion fell; for to this place, Thou holy maiden, have I brought the race 85 Of these offenders, who have freely told Both why and by what means they gave this bold Attempt upon their lives.

Clo. Fume all the ground, And sprinkle holy water, for unsound And foul infection ’gins to fill the air: 90 It gathers yet more strongly; take a pair [The Satyr fumes the ground, etc.] Of censers fill’d with frankincense and myrrh, Together with cold camphire quickly stir Thee, gentle Satyr, for the place begins To sweat and labour with th’ abhorred sins 95 Of those offenders: let them not come nigh, For full of itching flame and leprosy Their very souls are, that the ground goes back, And shrinks to feel the sullen weight of black And so unheard-of venom.—Hie thee fast, 100 Thou holy man, and banish from the chaste These manlike monsters; let them never more Be known upon these downs, but, long before The next sun’s rising, put them from the sight And memory of every honest wight: 105 Be quick in expedition, lest the sores Of these weak patients break into new gores.[3499] Exit Priest.

Peri. My dear, dear Amoret, how happy are Those blessed pairs, in whom a little jar Hath bred an everlasting love, too strong 110 For time, or steel, or envy to do wrong! How do you feel your hurts? Alas, poor heart, How much I was abus’d! Give me the smart, For it is justly mine.

Amo. I do believe, It is enough, dear friend; leave off to grieve, 115 And let us once more, in despite of ill, Give hands and hearts again.

Peri. With better will Than e’er I went to find in hottest day Cool crystal of the fountain, to allay 119 My eager thirst. May this band never break! Hear us, oh, Heaven!

Amo. Be constant.

Peri. Else Pan wreak With double vengeance my disloyalty! Let me not dare to know the company Of men, or any more behold those eyes!

Amo. Thus, shepherd, with a kiss all envy dies. 125

Re-enter Priest of Pan.

Priest. Bright maid, I have perform’d your will. The swain In whom such heat and black rebellions reign Hath undergone your sentence and disgrace; Only the maid I have reserv’d, whose face Shows much amendment; many a tear doth fall 130 In sorrow of her fault. Great fair, recall Your heavy doom, in hope of better days, Which I dare promise; once again upraise Her heavy spirit, that near drowned lies In self-consuming care that never dies. 135

Clo. I am content to pardon: call her in.— The air grows cool again, and doth begin To purge itself: how bright the day doth show After this stormy cloud!—Go, Satyr, go, And with this taper boldly try her hand. 140 If she be pure and good, and firmly stand To be so still, we have perform’d a work Worthy the gods themselves. Satyr brings AMARILLIS in.

Sat. Come forward, maiden; do not lurk, Nor hide your face with grief and shame; 145 Now or never get a name That may raise thee, and re-cure All thy life that was impure. Hold your hand unto the flame; If thou be’st a perfect dame, 150 Or hast truly vow’d to mend, This pale fire will be thy friend.—[Applies her hand to the taper.] See, the taper hurts her not! Go thy ways; let never spot Henceforth seize upon thy blood: 155 Thank the gods, and still be good.

Clo. Young shepherdess, now ye are brought again To virgin-state, be so, and so remain To thy last day, unless the faithful love 159 Of some good shepherd force thee to remove; Then labour to be true to him, and live As such a one that ever strives to give A blessed memory to after-time; Be famous for your good, not for your crime.— Now, holy man, I offer up again 165 These patients, full of health and free from pain. Keep them from after-ills; be ever near Unto their actions; teach them how to clear The tedious way they pass through from suspect; Keep them from wronging others, or neglect 170 Of duty in themselves; correct the blood With thrifty bits[3500] and labour; let the flood, Or the next neighbouring spring, give remedy To greedy thirst and travail, not the tree 174 That hangs with wanton clusters; let not wine, Unless in sacrifice or rites divine, Be ever known of shepherds; have a care, Thou man of holy life! Now do not spare Their faults through much remissness, nor forget 179 To cherish him whose many pains and sweat Hath giv’n increase and added to the downs. Sort all your shepherds from the lazy clowns That feed their heifers in the budded brooms. Teach the young maidens strictness, that the grooms May ever fear to tempt their blowing youth, 185 Banish all compliment, but single truth, From every tongue and every shepherd’s heart; Let them still use persuading, but no art. Thus, holy priest, I wish to thee and these All the best goods and comforts that may please. 190

All. And all those blessings Heaven did ever give, We pray upon this bower may ever live.

Priest. Kneel, every shepherd, whilst with powerful hand I bless your after-labours, and the land You feed your flocks upon. Great Pan defend you 195 From misfortune, and amend you; Keep you from those dangers still That are followed by your will; Give ye means to know at length, All your riches, all your strength, 200 Cannot keep your foot from falling To lewd lust, that still is calling At your cottage, till his power Bring again that golden hour Of peace and rest to every soul; 205 May his care of you control All diseases, sores, or pain, That in after-time may reign Either in your flocks or you; Give ye all affections new, 210 New desires, and tempers new, That ye may be ever true! Now rise, and go; and, as ye pass away, Sing to the God of Sheep that happy lay That honest Dorus taught ye,—Dorus, he 215 That was the soul and god of melody. They all sing [and strew the ground with flowers].

THE SONG.

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, 220 Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet All this ground With his honour and his name 225 That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honour’d. Daffadillies, Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, 230 Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy, Ever holy, Ever honour’d, ever young! 235 Thus great Pan is ever sung!

Exeunt [all except CLORIN and Satyr].

Sat. Thou divinest, fairest, brightest, Thou most powerful maid and whitest, Thou most virtuous and most blessed, Eyes of stars, and golden-tressed 240 Like Apollo; tell me, sweetest, What new service now is meetest For the Satyr? Shall I stray In the middle air, and stay The sailing rack,[3501] or nimbly take 245 Hold by the moon, and gently make Suit to the pale queen of night For a beam to give thee light? Shall I dive into the sea, And bring thee coral, making way 250 Through the rising waves that fall In snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies Whose woven wings the summer dyes Of many colours? get thee fruit, 255 Or steal from Heaven old Orpheus’ lute? All these I’ll venture for, and more, To do her service all these woods adore.

Clo. No other service, Satyr, but thy watch About these thicks,[3502] lest harmless people catch 260 Mischief or sad mischance.

Sat. Holy virgin, I will dance Round about these woods as quick As the breaking light, and prick[3503] Down the lawns and down the vales 265 Faster than the windmill sails. So I take my leave, and pray All the comforts of the day, Such as Phoebus’ heat doth send On the earth, may still befriend 270 Thee and this arbour!

Clo. And to thee All thy master’s love be free! Exeunt.

THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE

BY JOHN FLETCHER

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Dramatis Personae

DE GARD, a noble staid Gentleman, that, being newly lighted from his travels, assists his sister Oriana in her chase of Mirabel the Wild-Goose. Acted by Mr. Robert Benfield.

LA CASTRE, the indulgent father to Mirabel. Acted by Mr. Richard Robinson.

MIRABEL the Wild-Goose, a travelled Monsieur, and great defier of all ladies in the way of marriage, otherwise their much loose servant, at last caught by the despised Oriana. Incomparably acted by Mr. Joseph Taylor.

PINAC, his fellow-traveller, of a lively spirit, and servant to the no less sprightly Lillia Bianca. Admirably well acted by Mr. Thomas Pollard.

BELLEUR, Companion to both, of a stout blunt humour, in love with Rosalura. Most naturally acted by Mr. John Lowin.

NANTOLET, father to Rosalura and Lillia Bianca. Acted by Mr. William Penn.

LUGIER, the rough and confident tutor to the ladies, and chief engine to entrap the Wild-Goose. Acted by Mr. Hilliard Swanston.

A Young [Man disguised as a] Factor. By Mr. John Hony-man.

[Gentlemen,] Foot-Boy, Singing-Boy, Two [Men disguised as] Merchants, Priest, Servants.

ORIANA, the fair betrothed of Mirabel, and witty follower of the chase. Acted by Mr. Steph. Hammerton.

ROSALURA, } the airy daughters of Nantolet. LILLIA BIANCA, } William Trigg, Sander Gough.

PETELLA, their servant. Mr. Shanck.

MARIANA, an English Courtesan.

Four Women.

SCENE.—Paris.

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Act I, Scene I — [3504]

Enter Monsieur DE GARD and a Foot-boy.

De Gard. Sirrah, you know I have rid hard; stir my horse well, And let him want no litter.

F. Boy. I am sure I have run hard; Would somebody would walk me, and see me litter’d, For I think my fellow-horse cannot in reason 5 Desire more rest, nor take up his chamber before me: But we are the beasts now, and the beasts are our masters.

De Gard. When you have done, step to the ten-crown ordinary——

F. Boy. With all my heart, sir; for I have a twenty-crown stomach.

De Gard. And there bespeak a dinner.

F. Boy. [going.] Yes, sir, presently.[3505] 10

De Gard. For whom, I beseech you, sir?

F. Boy. For myself, I take it, sir.

De Gard. In truth, you shall not take it; ’t is not meant for you. There’s for your provender. [Gives money.] Bespeak a dinner For Monsieur Mirabel and his companions; They’ll be in town within this hour. When you have done, sirrah, 15 Make ready all things at my lodging for me, And wait me there.

F. Boy. The ten-crown ordinary?

De Gard. Yes, sir, if you have not forgot it.

F. Boy. I’ll forget my feet first: ’T is the best part of a footman’s faith. Exit.

De Gard. These youths, 20 For all they have been in Italy to learn thrift, And seem to wonder at men’s lavish ways, Yet they cannot rub off old friends, their French itches; They must meet sometimes to disport their bodies With good wine and good women, and good store too. 25 Let ’em be what they will, they are arm’d at all points, And then hang saving, let the sea grow high! This ordinary can fit ’em of all sizes. Enter LA CASTRE and ORIANA. They must salute their country with old customs.

Ori. Brother!

De Gard. My dearest sister!

Ori. Welcome, welcome! 30 Indeed, ye are welcome home, most welcome!

De Gard. Thank ye. You are grown a handsome woman, Oriana (Blush at your faults): I am wondrous glad to see ye.— Monsieur La Castre, let not my affection To my fair sister make me be held unmannerly. I am glad to see ye well, to see ye lusty, 36 Good health about ye, and in fair company; Believe me, I am proud——

La Cast. Fair sir, I thank ye. Monsieur De Gard, you are welcome from your journey; Good men have still good welcome. Give me your hand, sir, 40 Once more, you are welcome home. You look still younger.

De Gard. Time has no leisure to look after us; We wander every where; Age cannot find us.

La Cast. And how does all?

De Gard. All well, sir, and all lusty.

La Cast. I hope my son be so. I doubt not, sir, 45 But you have often seen him in your journeys, And bring me some fair news.

De Gard. Your son is well, sir. And grown a proper gentleman; he is well and lusty. Within this eight hours I took leave of him, And over-hied him, having some slight business That forc’d me out o’ th’ way. I can assure you, 51 He will be here to-night.

La Cast. Ye make me glad, sir, For, o’ my faith, I almost long to see him. Methinks, he has been away——

De Gard. ’T is but your tenderness. What are three years? A love-sick wench will allow it. 55 His friends that went out with him are come back too, Belleur and young Pinac. He bid me say little, Because he means to be his own glad messenger.

La Cast. I thank ye for this news, sir. He shall be welcome, And his friends too; indeed, I thank you heartily. 60 And how (for I dare say you will not flatter him) Has Italy wrought on him? Has he mew’d[3506] yet His wild fantastic toys? They say that climate Is a great purger of those humorous fluxes. How is he improved, I pray ye?

De Gard. No doubt, sir, well; 65 H’as borne himself a full and noble gentleman: To speak him farther is beyond my charter.

La Cast. I am glad to hear so much good. Come, I see You long to enjoy your sister; yet I must entreat ye, Before I go, to sup with me to-night, 70 And must not be deni’d.

De Gard. I am your servant.

La Cast. Where you shall meet fair, merry, and noble company; My neighbour Nantolet and his two fair daughters.

De Gard. Your supper’s season’d well, sir; I shall wait upon ye.

La Cast. Till then I ’ll leave ye; and y’ are once more welcome. Exit. 75

De Gard. I thank ye, noble sir! Now, Oriana, How have ye done since I went? Have ye had your health well? And your mind free?

Ori. You see, I am not bated; Merry, and eat my meat.

De Gard. A good preservative. And how have you been us’d? You know, Oriana, 80 Upon my going out, at your request, I left your portion in La Castre’s hands, The main means you must stick to. For that reason, And ’t is no little one, I ask ye, sister, With what humanity he entertains ye, 85 And how ye find his courtesy?

Ori. Most ready. I can assure you, sir, I am us’d most nobly.

De Gard. I am glad to hear it; but, I prithee, tell me And tell me true, what end had you, Oriana, In trusting your money here? He is no kinsman, 90 Nor any tie upon him of a guardian; Nor dare I think ye doubt my prodigality.

Ori. No, certain, sir; none of all this provoked[3507] me; Another private reason.

De Gard. ’Tis not private, Nor carried so; ’t is common, my fair sister; Your love to Mirabel: your blushes tell it. 96 ’Tis too much known, and spoken of too largely; And with no little shame I wonder at it.

Ori. Is it a shame to love?

De Gard. To love undiscreetly: A virgin should be tender of her honour, 100 Close, and secure.

Ori. I am as close as can be, And stand upon as strong and honest guards too; Unless this warlike age need a portcullis: Yet I confess, I love him.

De Gard. Hear the people.

Ori. Now, I say, hang the people! He that dares 105 Believe what they say dares be mad, and give His mother, nay, his own wife, up to rumour. All grounds of truth they build on is a tavern, And their best censure’s sack, sack in abundance; 109 For, as they drink, they think: they ne’er speak modestly, Unless the wine be poor, or they want money. Believe them! Believe Amadis de Gaul, The Knight o’ the Sun, or Palmerin of England; For these, to them, are modest and true stories. Pray, understand me; if their tongues be truth, And if in vino veritas be an oracle, 116 What woman is, or has been ever, honest? Give ’em but ten round cups, they’ll swear Lucretia Died not for want of power to resist Tarquin, But want of pleasure, that he stay’d no longer; And Portia, that was famous for her piety 121 To her lov’d lord, they ’ll face ye out, died o’ th’ pox.

De Gard. Well, there is something, sister.

Ori. If there be, brother, ’T is none of their things; ’t is not yet so monstrous: My thing is marriage; and, at his return, 125 I hope to put their squint eyes right again.

De Gard. Marriage? ’T is true his father is a rich man, Rich both in land and money; he his heir, A young and handsome man, I must confess, too; But of such qualities, and such wild flings, 130 Such admirable imperfections, sister, (For all his travel and bought experience,) I should be loth to own him for my brother. Methinks, a rich mind in a state indifferent Would prove the better fortune.

Ori. If he be wild, 135 The reclaiming him to good and honest, brother, Will make much for my honour; which, if I prosper, Shall be the study of my love, and life too.

De Gard. Ye say well; would he thought as well, and loved too! He marry! He’ll be hanged first. He knows no more 140 What the conditions and the ties of love are, The honest purposes and grounds of marriage, Nor will know, nor be ever brought t’ endeavour, Than I do how to build a church. He was ever A loose and strong defier of all order; 145 His loves are wanderers, they knock at each door, And taste each dish, but are no residents. Or say, he may be brought to think of marriage, (As ’t will be no small labour), thy hopes are strangers. 149 I know there is a labour’d match now follow’d, Now at this time, for which he was sent for home too. Be not abus’d:[3508] Nantolet has two fair daughters, And he must take his choice.

Ori. Let him take freely. For all this I despair not: my mind tells me That I, and only I, must make him perfect; 155 And in that hope I rest.

De Gard. Since y’ are so confident, Prosper your hope! I’ll be no adversary; Keep yourself fair and right, he shall not wrong ye.

Ori. When I forget my virtue, no man know me! Exeunt.

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