Amo.  Then hear me heaven, to whom I call for right,
And you fair twinkling stars that crown the night;
And hear me woods, and silence of this place,
And ye sad hours that move a sullen pace;
Hear me ye shadows that delight to dwell
In horrid darkness, and ye powers of Hell,
Whilst I breath out my last; I am that maid,
That yet untainted Amoret, that plaid
The careless prodigal, and gave away
My soul to this young man, that now dares say
I am a stranger, not the same, more wild;
And thus with much belief I was beguil’d. 
I am that maid, that have delaid, deny’d,
And almost scorn’d the loves of all that try’d
To win me, but this swain, and yet confess
I have been woo’d by many with no less
Soul of affection, and have often had
Rings, Belts, and Cracknels sent me from the lad
That feeds his flocks down westward; Lambs and Doves
By young Alexis; Daphnis sent me gloves,
All which I gave to thee:  nor these, nor they
That sent them did I smile on, or e’re lay
Up to my after-memory.  But why
Do I resolve to grieve, and not to dye? 
Happy had been the stroke thou gav’st, if home;
By this time had I found a quiet room
Where every slave is free, and every brest
That living breeds new care, now lies at rest,
And thither will poor Amoret.

Per.  Thou must. 
Was ever any man so loth to trust
His eyes as I? or was there ever yet
Any so like as this to Amoret? 
For whose dear sake, I promise if there be
A living soul within thee, thus to free
Thy body from it. [He hurts her again.

Amo.  So, this work hath end:  Farewel and live, be constant to thy friend That loves thee next.

Enter Satyr, Perigot runs off.

Satyr.  See the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtil fire, the wind blows cold,
Whilst the morning doth unfold;
Now the Birds begin to rouse,
And the Squirril from the boughs
Leaps to get him Nuts and fruit;
The early Lark that erst was mute,
Carrols to the rising day
Many a note and many a lay: 
Therefore here I end my watch,
Lest the wandring swain should catch
Harm, or lose himself.

Amo.  Ah me!

Satyr.  Speak again what e’re thou be,
I am ready, speak I say: 
By the dawning of the day,
By the power of night and Pan,
I inforce thee speak again.

Amo.  O I am most unhappy.

Satyr.  Yet more blood! 
Sure these wanton Swains are wode. 
Can there be a hand or heart
Dare commit so vile a part
As this Murther?  By the Moon
That hid her self when this was done,
Never was a sweeter face: 
I will bear her to the place
Where my Goddess keeps; and crave
Her to give her life, or grave. [Exeunt.