That hallo I should know. What are you? speak. 490
Come not too near; you fall on iron stakes else.
Spir. What voice is that? my young lord? speak again.
Sec. Bro. O brother, ’tis my father’s Shepherd, sure.
Eld. Bro. [Thyrsis]! whose artful strains have oft delayed
[The huddling brook to hear his madrigal], 495
And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale.
How camest thou here, good swain? Hath any ram
Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam,
Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook?