Alex.  And all those blessings Heaven did ever give, We pray upon this Bower may ever live.

Priest.  Kneel every Shepherd, whilest with powerful hand
I bless your after labours, and the Land
You feed your flocks upon.  Great Pan defend you
From misfortune, and amend you,
Keep you from those dangers still,
That are followed by your will,
Give ye means to know at length
All your riches, all your strength,
Cannot keep your foot from falling
To lewd lust, that still is calling
At your Cottage, till his power
Bring again that golden hour
Of peace and rest to every soul. 
May his care of you controul
All diseases, sores or pain
That in after time may raign
Either in your flocks or you,
Give ye all affections new,
New desires, and tempers new,
That ye may be ever true. 
Now rise and go, and as ye pass away
Sing to the God of Sheep, that happy lay,
That honest Dorus taught ye, Dorus, he
That was the soul and god of melodie.

The SONG. [They all Sing

All ye woods, and trees and bowers,
All you vertues and ye powers
That inhabit in the lakes,
In the pleasant springs or brakes,
    Move your feet
    To our sound,
    Whilest we greet
    All this ground,
With his honour and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is Just,
He is ever good, and must
Thus be honour’d:  Daffodillies,
Roses, Pinks, and loved Lillies,
    Let us fling,
    Whilest we sing,
    Ever holy,
    Ever holy,
Ever honoured ever young,
Thus great_ Pan is ever sung. [Exeunt.

Satyr._ Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou m[o]st powerful Maid, and whitest,
Thou most vertuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like Apollo, tell me sweetest
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? shall I stray
In the middle Air, and stay
The sayling Rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the Moon, and gently make
Sute to the pale Queen of night
For a beam to give thee light? 
Shall I dive into the Sea,
And bring thee Coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowie fleeces; dearest, shall
I catch the wanton Fawns, or Flyes,
Whose woven wings the Summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit? 
Or steal from Heaven old Orpheus Lute? 
All these I’le venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

Clor.  No other service, Satyr, but thy watch About these thickets, lest harmless people catch Mischief or sad mischance.

Satyr.  Holy Virgin, I will dance
Round about these woods as quick
As the breaking light, and prick
Down the Lawns, and down the vails
Faster than the Wind-mill sails. 
So I take my leave, and pray
All the comforts of the day,
Such as Phoebus heat doth send
On the earth, may still befriend
Thee, and this arbour.