Old Shep.  Now we have done this holy Festival
In honour of our great God, and his rites
Perform’d, prepare your selves for chaste
And uncorrupted fires:  that as the Priest,
With powerful hand shall sprinkle on [your] Brows
His pure and holy water, ye may be
From all hot flames of lust, and loose thoughts free. 
Kneel Shepherds, kneel, here comes the Priest of Pan.

Enter Priest.

Priest.  Shepherds, thus I purge away,
Whatsoever this great day,
Or the past hours gave not good,
To corrupt your Maiden blood: 
From the high rebellious heat
Of the Grapes, and strength of meat;
From the wanton quick desires,
They do kindle by their fires,
I do wash you with this water,
Be you pure and fair hereafter. 
From your Liver and your Veins,
Thus I take away the stains. 
All your thoughts be smooth and fair,
Be ye fresh and free as Air. 
Never more let lustful heat
Through your purged conduits beat,
Or a plighted troth be broken,
Or a wanton verse be spoken
In a Shepherdesses ear;
Go your wayes, ye are all clear.
                     [They rise and sing in praise of Pan.

The SONG.

Sing his praises that doth keep
  Our Flocks from harm,
Pan the Father of our Sheep,
  And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilest the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the Musick with her sound.

Pan, O great God Pan, to thee
  Thus do we sing: 
Thou that keep’st us chaste and free
  As the young spring,
Ever be thy honour spoke,
From that place the morn is broke,
To that place Day doth unyoke.
               [Exeunt omnes but Perigot and Amoret.

Peri.  Stay gentle Amoret, thou fair brow’d Maid, Thy Shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, Equal with his souls good.

Amo.  Speak; I give
Thee freedom Shepherd, and thy tongue be still
The same it ever was; as free from ill,
As he whose conversation never knew
The Court or City be thou ever true.

Peri.  When I fall off from my affection,
Or mingle my clean thoughts with foul desires,
First let our great God cease to keep my flocks,
That being left alone without a guard,
The Wolf, or Winters rage, Summers great heat,
And want of Water, Rots; or what to us
Of ill is yet unknown, full speedily,
And in their general ruine let me feel.

Amo.  I pray thee gentle Shepherd wish not so,
I do believe thee:  ’tis as hard for me
To think thee false, and harder than for thee
To hold me foul.

Peri.  O you are fairer far
Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star
That guides the wandring Sea-men through the deep,
Straighter than straightest Pine upon the steep
Head of an aged mountain, and more white
Than the new Milk we strip before day-light
From the full fraighted bags of our fair flocks: 
Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks
Of young Apollo.