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.

Clor. Satyr, they wrong thee, that do term thee rude,
Though thou beest outward rough and tawny hu’d,
Thy manners are as gentle and as fair
As his, who brags himself, born only heir
To all Humanity:  let me see the wound: 
This Herb will stay the current being bound
Fast to the Orifice, and this restrain
Ulcers, and swellings, and such inward pain,
As the cold air hath forc’d into the sore: 
This to draw out such putrifying gore
As inward falls.

Satyr. Heaven grant it may doe good.

Clor. Fairly wipe away the blood: 
Hold him gently till I fling
Water of a vertuous spring
On his temples; turn him twice
To the Moon beams, pinch him thrice,
That the labouring soul may draw
From his great eclipse.

Satyr. I saw His eye-lids moving.

Clo. Give him breath,
All the danger of cold death
Now is vanisht; with this Plaster,
And this unction, do I master
All the festred ill that may
Give him grief another day.

Satyr. See he gathers up his spright
And begins to hunt for light;
Now he gapes and breaths again: 
How the blood runs to the vein,
That erst was empty!

Alex. O my heart,
My dearest, dearest Cloe, O the smart
Runs through my side:  I feel some pointed thing
Pass through my Bowels, sharper than the sting
Of Scorpion.

  Pan preserve me, what are you? 
  Do not hurt me, I am true
  To my Cloe, though she flye,
  And leave me to thy destiny. 
  There she stands, and will not lend
  Her smooth white hand to help her friend: 

But I am much mistaken, for that face
Bears more Austerity and modest grace,

  More reproving and more awe
  Than these eyes yet ever saw
  In my Cloe.  Oh my pain
  Eagerly renews again.

Give me your help for his sake you love best.

Clor. Shepherd, thou canst not possibly take rest,
Till thou hast laid aside all hearts desires
Provoking thought that stir up lusty fires,
Commerce with wanton eyes, strong blood, and will
To execute, these must be purg’d, untill
The vein grow whiter; then repent, and pray
Great Pan to keep you from the like decay,
And I shall undertake your cure with ease. 
Till when this vertuous Plaster will displease
Your tender sides; give me your hand and rise: 
Help him a little Satyr, for his thighs
Yet are feeble.