Enter Cloe.

Cloe.  How have I wrong’d the times, or men, that thus
After this holy Feast I pass unknown
And unsaluted? ’twas not wont to be
Thus frozen with the younger companie
Of jolly Shepherds; ’twas not then held good,
For lusty Grooms to mix their quicker blood
With that dull humour, most unfit to be
The friend of man, cold and dull Chastitie. 
Sure I am held not fair, or am too old,
Or else not free enough, or from my fold
Drive not a flock sufficient great, to gain
The greedy eyes of wealth-alluring Swain: 
Yet if I may believe what others say,
My face has soil enough; nor can they lay
Justly too strict a Coyness to my Charge;
My Flocks are many, and the Downs as large
They feed upon:  then let it ever be
Their Coldness, not my Virgin Modestie
Makes me complain.

Enter Thenot.

The.  Was ever Man but I
Thus truly taken with uncertainty? 
Where shall that Man be found that loves a mind
Made up in Constancy, and dare not find
His Love rewarded? here let all men know
A Wretch that lives to love his Mistress so.

Clo.  Shepherd, I pray thee stay, where hast thou been? 
Or whither go’st thou? here be Woods as green
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet,
As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled Streams, with Flowers as many
As the young Spring gives, and as choise as any;
Here be all new Delights, cool Streams and Wells,
Arbors o’rgrown with Woodbinds, Caves, and Dells,
Chase where thou wilt, whilst I sit by, and sing,
Or gather Rushes to make many a Ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of Love,
How the pale Phoebe hunting in a Grove,
First saw the Boy Endymion, from whose Eyes
She took eternal fire that never dyes;
How she convey’d him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy to the steep
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the Mountain with her Brothers light,
To kiss her sweetest.

The.  Far from me are these
Hot flashes, bred from wanton heat and ease;
I have forgot what love and loving meant: 
Rhimes, Songs, and merry Rounds, that oft are sent
To the soft Ears of Maids, are strange to me;
Only I live t’ admire a Chastitie,
That neither pleasing Age, smooth tongue, or Gold,
Could ever break upon, so pure a Mold
Is that her Mind was cast in; ’tis to her
I only am reserv’d; she is my form I stir
By, breath and move, ’tis she and only she
Can make me happy, or give miserie.

Clo.  Good Shepherd, may a Stranger crave to know To whom this dear observance you do ow?

The.  You may, and by her Vertue learn to square
And level out your Life; for to be fair
And nothing vertuous, only fits the Eye
Of gaudy Youth, and swelling Vanitie. 
Then know, she’s call’d the Virgin of the Grove,
She that hath long since bury’d her chaste Love,
And now lives by his Grave, for whose dear Soul
She hath vow’d her self into the holy Roll
Of strict Virginity; ’tis her I so admire,
Not any looser Blood, or new desire.