Amo. For ought I know or think, these words, my last: Yet Pan so help me as my thoughts are chast.
Clor. And so may Pan bless this my cure, 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.
Satyr. Here away methinks I wind it,
Stronger yet: Oh here they be,
Here, here, in a hollow tree,
Two fond mortals have I found.
Clor. Bring them out, they are unsound.
Enter Cloe, and Daphnis.
Satyr. By the fingers thus I wring ye,
To my Goddess thus I bring ye;
Strife is vain, come gently in,
I scented them, they're full of sin.
Clor. Hold Satyr, take this Glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the Air from lustfull breath,
To save this Shepherdess from death,
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound for fear the pain encrease.
Sat. From this glass I throw a drop
Of Crystal water on the top
Of every grass, on flowers a pair:
Send a fume and keep the air
Pure and wholsom, sweet and blest,
Till this Virgins wound be drest.
Clor. Satyr, help to bring her in.
Sat. By Pan, I think she hath no sin,
She is so light: lye on these leaves.
Sleep that mortal sense deceives,
Crown thine Eyes, and ease thy pain,
Maist thou soon be well again.