Old Shep.  It is to little purpose, not a swain
This night hath known his lodging here, or lain
Within these cotes:  the woods, or some near town,
That is a neighbour to the bordering Down,
Hath drawn them thither, ’bout some lustie sport,
Or spiced Wassel-Boul, to which resort
All the young men and maids of many a cote,
Whilst the trim Minstrel strikes his merry note.

Priest.  God pardon sin, show me the way that leads To any of their haunts.

Old Shep.  This to the meads, And that down to the woods.

Priest.  Then this for me; Come Shepherd let me crave your companie. [Exeunt.

Enter Clorin, in her Cabin, Alexis, with her.

Clor.  Now your thoughts are almost pure,
And your wound begins to cure: 
Strive to banish all that’s vain,
Lest it should break out again.

Alex.  Eternal thanks to thee, thou holy maid: 
I find my former wandring thoughts well staid
Through thy wise precepts, and my outward pain
By thy choice herbs is almost gone again: 
Thy sexes vice and vertue are reveal’d
At once, for what one hurt, another heal’d.

Clor.  May thy grief more appease,
Relapses are the worst disease. 
Take heed how you in thought offend,
So mind and body both will mend.

Enter Satyr, with Amoret.

Amo.  Beest thou the wildest creature of the wood,
That bearst me thus away, drown’d in my blood,
And dying, know I cannot injur’d be,
I am a maid, let that name fight for me.

Satyr.  Fairest Virgin do not fear
Me, that do thy body bear,
Not to hurt, but heal’d to be;
Men are ruder far than we. 
See fair Goddess in the wood,
They have let out yet more blood. 
Some savage man hath struck her breast
So soft and white, that no wild beast
Durst ha’ toucht asleep, or wake: 
So sweet, that Adder, Newte, or Snake,
Would have lain from arm to arm,
On her bosom to be warm
All a night, and being hot,
Gone away and stung her not. 
Quickly clap herbs to her breast;
A man sure is a kind of beast.

Clor.  With spotless hand, on spotless brest
I put these herbs to give thee rest: 
Which till it heal thee, will abide,
If both be pure, if not, off slide. 
See it falls off from the wound,
Shepherdess thou art not sound,
Full of lust.

Satyr, Who would have thought it, So fair a face?

Clor.  Why that hath brought it.

Amo.  For ought I know or think, these words, my last:  Yet Pan so help me as my thoughts are chast.

Clor.  And so may Pan bless this my cure,
As all my thoughts are just and pure;
Some uncleanness nigh doth lurk,
That will not let my Medicines work.
Satyr search if thou canst find it.