Amar.  I am not blind,
Nor is it through the working of my mind,
That this shows Amoret; forsake me all
That dwell upon the soul, but what men call
Wonder, or more than wonder, miracle,
For sure so strange as this the Oracle
Never gave answer of, it passeth dreams,
Or mad-mens fancy, when the many streams
Of new imaginations rise and fall: 
’Tis but an hour since these Ears heard her call
For pity to young Perigot; whilest he,
Directed by his fury bloodily
Lanc’t up her brest, which bloodless fell and cold;
And if belief may credit what was told,
After all this, the Melancholy Swain
Took her into his arms being almost slain,
And to the bottom of the holy well
Flung her, for ever with the waves to dwell. 
’Tis she, the very same, ’tis Amoret,
And living yet, the great powers will not let
Their vertuous love be crost.  Maid, wipe away
Those heavy drops of sorrow, and allay
The storm that yet goes high, which not deprest,
Breaks heart and life, and all before it rest: 
Thy Perigot—­

Amor.  Where, which is Perigot?

Amar.  Sits there below, lamenting much, god wot,
Thee [and thy] fortune, go and comfort him,
And thou shalt find him underneath a brim
Of sailing Pines that edge yon Mountain in.

Amo.  I go, I run, Heaven grant me I may win His soul again. [Exit Amoret.

Enter Sullen.

Sull.  Stay Amaryllis, stay,
Ye are too fleet, ’tis two hours yet to day. 
I have perform’d my promise, let us sit
And warm our bloods together till the fit
Come lively on us.

Amar.  Friend you are too keen, The morning riseth and we shall be seen, Forbear a little.

Sull.  I can stay no longer.

Amar.  Hold Shepherd hold, learn not to be a wronger Of your word, was not your promise laid, To break their loves first?

Sull.  I have done it Maid.

Amar.  No, they are yet unbroken, met again, And are as hard to part yet as the stain Is from the finest Lawn.

Sull.  I say they are Now at this present parted, and so far, That they shall never meet.

Amar.  Swain ’tis not so, For do but to yon hanging Mountain go, And there believe your eyes.

Sull.  You do but hold Off with delayes and trifles; farewell cold And frozen bashfulness, unfit for men; Thus I salute thee Virgin.

Amar.  And thus then, I bid you follow, catch me if you can. [Exit.

Sull.  And if I stay behind I am no man. [Exit running after her.

Enter Perigot.