Enter Clorin.

Clor.  Here whilst one patient takes his rest secure
I steal abroad to doe another Cure. 
Pardon thou buryed body of my love,
That from thy side I dare so soon remove,
I will not prove unconstant, nor will leave
Thee for an hour alone.  When I deceive
My first made vow, the wildest of the wood
Tear me, and o’re thy Grave let out my blood;
I goe by wit to cure a lovers pain
Which no herb can; being done, I’le come again. [Exit.

Enter Thenot.

The.  Poor Shepherd in this shade for ever lye,
And seeing thy fair Clorins Cabin, dye: 
0 hapless love, which [being] answer’d, ends;
And as a little infant cryes and bends
His tender Brows, when rowling of his eye
He hath espy’d some thing that glisters nigh
Which he would have, yet give it him, away
He throws it straight, and cryes afresh to play
With something else:  such my affection, set
On that which I should loath, if I could get.

Enter Clorin.

Clor.  See where he lyes; did ever man but he
Love any woman for her Constancie
To her dead lover, which she needs must end
Before she can allow him for her friend,
And he himself must needs the cause destroy,
For which he loves, before he can enjoy? 
Poor Shepherd, Heaven grant I at once may free
Thee from thy pain, and keep my loyaltie: 
Shepherd, look up.

The.  Thy brightness doth amaze! 
So Phoebus may at noon bid mortals gaze,
Thy glorious constancie appears so bright,
I dare not meet the Beams with my weak sight.

Clor.  Why dost thou pine away thy self for me?

The.  Why dost thou keep such spotless constancie?

Clor.  Thou holy Shepherd, see what for thy sake Clorin, thy Clorin, now dare under take. [He starts up.

The.  Stay there, thou constant Clorin, if there be
Yet any part of woman left in thee,
To make thee light:  think yet before thou speak.

Clor.  See what a holy vow for thee I break.  I that already have my fame far spread For being constant to my lover dead.

The.  Think yet, dear Clorin, of your love, how true, If you had dyed, he would have been to you.

Clor.  Yet all I’le lose for thee.

The.  Think but how blest A constant woman is above the rest.

Clor.  And offer up my self, here on this ground, To be dispos’d by thee.

The.  Why dost thou wound
His heart with malice, against woman more,
That hated all the Sex, but thee before? 
How much more pleasant had it been to me
To dye, than to behold this change in thee? 
Yet, yet, return, let not the woman sway.

Clor.  Insult not on her now, nor use delay, Who for thy sake hath ventur’d all her fame.