Alex. Sure I have lost much blood.

Satyr. ’Tis no matter, ’twas not good. 
Mortal you must leave your wooing,
Though there be a joy in doing,
Yet it brings much grief behind it,
They best feel it, that do find it.

Clor. Come bring him in, I will attend his sore When you are well, take heed you lust no more.

Satyr. Shepherd, see what comes of kissing,
By my head ’twere better missing. 
Brightest, if there be remaining
Any service, without feigning
I will do it; were I set
To catch the nimble wind, or get
Shadows gliding on the green,
Or to steal from the great Queen
Of Fayries, all her beauty,
I would do it, so much duty
Do I owe those precious Eyes.

Clor. I thank thee honest Satyr, if the cryes
Of any other that be hurt or ill,
Draw thee unto them, prithee do thy will
To bring them hither.

Satyr. I will, and when the weather
Serves to Angle in the brook,
I will bring a silver hook,
With a line of finest silk,
And a rod as white as milk,
To deceive the little fish: 
So I take my leave, and wish,
On this Bower may ever dwell
Spring, and Summer.

Clo.  Friend farewel. [Exit.

Enter Amoret, seeking her Love.

Amor.  This place is Ominous, for here I lost
My Love and almost life, and since have crost
All these Woods over, never a Nook or Dell,
Where any little Bird, or Beast doth dwell,
But I have sought him, never a bending brow
Of any Hill or Glade, the wind sings through,
Nor a green bank, nor shade where Shepherds use
To sit and Riddle, sweetly pipe, or chuse
Their Valentines, that I have mist, to find
My love in. Perigot, Oh too unkind,
Why hast thou fled me? whither art thou gone? 
How have I wrong’d thee? was my love alone
To thee worthy this scorn’d recompence? ’tis well,
I am content to feel it:  but I tell
Thee Shepherd, and these lusty woods shall hear,
Forsaken Amoret is yet as clear
Of any stranger fire, as Heaven is
From foul corruption, or the deep Abysse
From light and happiness; and thou mayst know
All this for truth, and how that fatal blow
Thou gav’st me, never from desert of mine,
Fell on my life, but from suspect of thine,
Or fury more than madness; therefore, here,
Since I have lost my life, my love, my dear,
Upon this cursed place, and on this green,
That first divorc’d us, shortly shall be seen
A sight of so great pity, that each eye
Shall dayly spend his spring in memory
Of my untimely fall.

Enter Amaryllis.