Brightest fair thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful Majesty,
Than dull weak mortalitie
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live:  therefore on this mold
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy Deitie;
Deign it Goddess from my hand,
To receive what e’re this land
From her fertil Womb doth send
Of her choice Fruits:  and but lend
Belief to that the Satyre tells,
Fairer by the famous wells,
To this present day ne’re grew,
Never better nor more true. 
Here be Grapes whose lusty bloud
Is the learned Poets good,
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus, Nuts more brown
Than the Squirrels Teeth that crack them;
Deign O fairest fair to take them. 
For these black ey’d Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me,
With my clasped knee to clime;
See how well the lusty time
Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spred,
Here be Berries for a Queen,
Some be red, some be green,
These are of that luscious meat,
The great God Pan himself doth eat: 
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong,
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad Beeches shade,
I must go, I must run
Swifter than the fiery Sun. [Exit.

Clo.  And all my fears go with thee. 
What greatness or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man, and beast? sure I am mortal: 
The Daughter of a Shepherd, he was mortal: 
And she that bore me mortal:  prick my hand
And it will bleed:  a Feaver shakes me,
And the self same wind that makes the young Lambs shrink,
Makes me a cold:  my fear says I am mortal: 
Yet I have heard (my Mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My Virgin Flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair,
No Goblin, Wood-god, Fairy, Elfe, or Fiend,
Satyr or other power that haunts the Groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires;
Or voyces calling me in dead of night,
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruine: 
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more mishapen,
Thus mildly kneel to me? sure there is a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines:  then strong Chastity
Be thou my strongest guard, for here I’le dwell
In opposition against Fate and Hell.

Enter an old Shepherd, with him four couple of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.