I see the smoake steame from the Cottage tops,
    The fearfull huswife rakes the embers up,
    All hush to bed.  Sure, no man will disturbe mee. 
    O blessed vally!  I the wretched Claius
    Salute thy happy soyle, I that have liv’d
    Pelted with angry curses in a place
    As horrid as my griefes, the Lylibaean mountaines,
    These sixteene frozen winters; there have I
    Beene with rude out-lawes, living by such sinnes
    As runne o’ th’ score with justice ’gainst my prayers and wishes: 
    And when I would have tumbled down a rock,
    Some secret powre restrain’d me. (III. ii.)

By far the greater part of the play is in blank verse, but in a few passages, particularly in certain dialogues tending to stichomythia, the verse is pointed, so to speak, with rime.  The following is a graceful example in a somewhat conceited vein; the transition, moreover, from blank to rimed measure has an appearance of natural ease.  The rivals are awaiting the arbitrement of their love: 

    Alexis. How early, Damon,
    Doe lovers rise!...

    Damon. No Larkes so soon, Alexis.

    Al. He that of us shall have Laurinda, Damon,
    Will not be up so soone:  ha! would you Damon?

    Da. Alexis, no; but if I misse Laurinda,
    My sleepe shall be eternall.

    Al. I much wonder the Sunne so soone can rise!

    Da. Did he lay his head in faire Laurinda’s lap,
    We should have but short daies.

    Al. No summer, Damon.

    Da. Thetis[281] to her is browne.

    Al. And he doth rise
    From her to gaze on faire Laurinda’s eyes....

    Da. I heare no noise of any yet that move.

    Al. Devotion’s not so early up as love.

    Da. See how Aurora blushes! we suppose
    Where Tithon lay to night.

    Al. That modest rose
    He grafted there.

    Da. O heaven, ’tis all I seeke,
    To make that colour in Laurinda’s cheeke. (IV. iv.)

A more tragic note is struck in the speech in which Claius retorts on Pilumnus after his discovery: 

    I, glut your hate, Pilumnus; let your soule
    That has so long thirsted to drinke my blood,
    Swill till my veines are empty;...  I have stood
    Long like a fatall oake, at which great Jove
    Levels his thunder; all my boughes long since
    Blasted and wither’d; now the trunke falls too. 
    Heaven end thy wrath in mee! (IV. viii.)

In some of these ‘high tragical endeavours,’ and notably in Damon’s confession, we do indeed find a certain stiltedness, but even here there rings a true note of pathos in the farewell: 

                         Amarillis,
    I goe to write my story of repentance
    With the same inke, wherewith thou wrotes before
    The legend of thy love. (IV. ix.)