Amar. Stay thy dead-doing hand, thou art too hot
Against thy self, believe me comely Swain,
If that thou dyest, not all the showers of Rain
The heavy clods send down can wash away
That foul unmanly guilt, the world will lay
Upon thee. Yet thy love untainted stands:
Believe me, she is constant, not the sands
Can be so hardly numbred 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:
Then be a free man, put away despair,
And will to dye, smooth gently up that fair
Dejected forehead: be as when those eyes
Took the first heat.
Per. Alas he double dyes,
That would believe, but cannot; 'tis not well
Ye keep me thus from dying, here to dwell
With many worse companions: but oh death,
I am not yet inamour'd of this breath
So much, but I dare leave it, 'tis not pain
In forcing of a wound, nor after gain
Of many dayes, can hold me from my will:
'Tis not my self, but Amoret, bids kill.
Ama. 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,
My self 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 Prim-Rose Chaplet, taudry-lace and Ring,
Thou gavest her for her singing, with each thing
Else that she wears about her, let me feel
The first fell stroke of that Revenging steel.
Per. I am contented, if there be a hope
To give it entertainment, for the scope
Of one poor hour; goe, you shall find me next
Under yon shady Beech, even thus perplext,
And thus believing.
Ama. Bind before I goe,
Thy soul by Pan unto me, not to doe
Harm or outragious wrong upon thy life,
Till my return.
Per. By Pan, and by the strife
He had with Phoebus for the Mastery,
When Golden Midas judg'd their Minstrelcy,
I will not. [Exeunt.
Enter Satyr, with Alexis, hurt.
Satyr. Softly gliding as I goe,
With this burthen full of woe,
Through still silence of the night,
Guided by the Gloe-worms light,
Hither am I come at last,
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 tender spray: nor creeps
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
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
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:
But behold the happy power,
That must ease me of my charge,
And by holy hand enlarge
The soul of this sad man, that yet
Lyes fast bound in deadly fit;
Heaven and great Pan succour it!
Hail thou beauty of the bower,
Whiter than the Paramour
Of my Master, let me crave
Thy vertuous help to keep from Grave
This poor Mortal that here lyes,
Waiting when the destinies
Will cut off his thred of life:
View the wound by cruel knife
Trencht into him.
Clor. What art thou call'st me from my holy rites, And with thy feared name of death affrights My tender Ears? speak me thy name and will.
Satyr. I am the Satyr that did fill
Your lap with early fruit, and will,
When I hap to gather more,
Bring ye better and more store:
Yet I come not empty now,
See a blossom from the bow,
But beshrew his heart that pull'd it,
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;
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
Spring and perish in a day.