Amo.  Shepherd be not lost, Y’are sail’d too far already from the Coast Of our discourse.

Peri.  Did you not tell me once
I should not love alone, I should not lose
Those many passions, vows, and holy Oaths,
I’ve sent to Heaven? did you not give your hand,
Even that fair hand in hostage?  Do not then
Give back again those sweets to other men,
You your self vow’d were mine.

Amo.  Shepherd, so far as Maidens modesty
May give assurance, I am once more thine,
Once more I give my hand; be ever free
From that great foe to faith, foul jealousie.

Peri.  I take it as my best good, and desire
For stronger confirmation of our love,
To meet this happy night in that fair Grove,
Where all true Shepherds have rewarded been
For their long service:  say sweet, shall it hold?

Amo.  Dear friend, you must not blame me if I make
A doubt of what the silent night may do,
Coupled with this dayes heat to move your bloud: 
Maids must be fearful; sure you have not been
Wash’d white enough; for yet I see a stain
Stick in your Liver, go and purge again.

Peri.  O do not wrong my honest simple truth,
My self and my affections are as pure
As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine
Of the great Dian:  only my intent
To draw you thither, was to plight our troths,
With enterchange of mutual chaste embraces,
And ceremonious tying of our selves: 
For to that holy wood is consecrate
A vertuous well, about whose flowry banks,
The nimble-footed Fairies dance their rounds,
By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes
Their stolen Children, so to make them free
From dying flesh, and dull mortalitie;
By this fair Fount hath many a Shepherd sworn,
And given away his freedom, many a troth
Been plight, which neither envy, nor old time
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given,
In hope of coming happiness; by this
Fresh Fountain many a blushing Maid
Hath crown’d the head of her long loved Shepherd
With gaudy flowers, whilest he happy sung
Layes of his love and dear Captivitie;
There grows all Herbs fit to cool looser flames
Our sensual parts provoke, chiding our bloods,
And quenching by their power those hidden sparks
That else would break out, and provoke our sense
To open fires, so vertuous is that place: 
Then gentle Shepherdess, believe and grant,
In troth it fits not with that face to scant
Your faithful Shepherd of those chaste desires
He ever aim’d at, and—­

Amo.  Thou hast prevail’d, farewel, this coming night Shall crown thy chast hopes with long wish’d delight.