CHLORIS.
Throw me at least upon a cleaner place;
My linen ruffled, and my waistcoat soiling—
What, do you think new clothes were made for spoiling?
DAPHNIS.
I'll lay my lambkins underneath thy back.
CHLORIS.
My head-gear's off; what filthy work you make!
DAPHNIS.
To Venus, first, I lay these offerings by.
CHLORIS.
Nay, first look round, that nobody be nigh:
Methinks I hear a whispering in the grove.