Satyr.  Here away methinks I wind it,
Stronger yet:  Oh here they be,
Here, here, in a hollow tree,
Two fond mortals have I found.

Clor.  Bring them out, they are unsound.

Enter Cloe, and Daphnis.

Satyr.  By the fingers thus I wring ye,
To my Goddess thus I bring ye;
Strife is vain, come gently in,
I scented them, they’re full of sin.

Clor.  Hold Satyr, take this Glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the Air from lustfull breath,
To save this Shepherdess from death,
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound for fear the pain encrease.

Sat.  From this glass I throw a drop
Of Crystal water on the top
Of every grass, on flowers a pair: 
Send a fume and keep the air
Pure and wholsom, sweet and blest,
Till this Virgins wound be drest.

Clor.  Satyr, help to bring her in.

Sat.  By Pan, I think she hath no sin,
She is so light:  lye on these leaves. 
Sleep that mortal sense deceives,
Crown thine Eyes, and ease thy pain,
Maist thou soon be well again.

Clor.  Satyr, bring the Shepherd near, Try him if his mind be clear.

Sat.  Shepherd come.

Daph.  My thoughts are pure.

Sat.  The better trial to endure.

Clor.  In this flame his finger thrust,
Which will burn him if he lust;
But if not, away will turn,
As loth unspotted flesh to burn: 
See, it gives back, let him go,
Farewel mortal, keep thee so.

Sat.  Stay fair Nymph, flye not so fast,
We must try if you be chaste: 
Here’s a hand that quakes for fear,
Sure she will not prove so clear.

Clor. Hold her finger to the flame, That will yield her praise or shame.

Sat. To her doom she dares not stand,
But plucks away her tender hand,
And the Taper darting sends
His hot beams at her fingers ends: 
O thou art foul within, and hast
A mind, if nothing else, unchaste.

Alex. Is not that Cloe? ’tis my Love, ’tis she! Cloe, fair Cloe.

Clo. My Alexis.

Alex. He.

Clo. Let me embrace thee.

Clor. Take her hence, Lest her sight disturb his sence.

Alex. Take not her, take my life first.

Clor. See, his wound again is burst: 
Keep her near, here in the Wood,
Till I ha’ stopt these Streams of Blood. 
Soon again he ease shall find,
If I can but still his mind: 
This Curtain thus I do display,
To keep the piercing air away.

Enter old Shepherd, and Priest.

Priest.  Sure they are lost for ever; ’tis in vain
To find ’em out with trouble and much pain,
That have a ripe desire, and forward will
To flye the Company of all but ill,
What shall be counsel’d now? shall we retire? 
Or constant follow still that first desire
We had to find them?