Clo.  Farewel poor Swain, thou art not for my bend,
I must have quicker Souls, whose works may tend
To some free action:  give me him dare love
At first encounter, and as soon dare prove.

The SONG.

  Come Shepherds, come,
Come away without delay
Whilst the gentle time dot[h] stay. 
  Green Woods are dumb,
And will never tell to any
Those dear Kisses, and those many
Sweet Embraces that are given
Dainty Pleasures that would even
Raise in coldest Age a fire,
And give Virgin Blood desire,
    Then if ever,
    Now or never,
    Come and have it,
    Think not I,
    Dare deny,
    If you crave it.

Enter Daphnis.

Here comes another:  better be my speed,
Thou god of Blood:  but certain, if I read
Not false, this is that modest Shepherd, he
That only dare salute, but ne’r could be
Brought to kiss any, hold discourse, or sing,
Whisper, or boldly ask that wished thing
We all are born for; one that makes loving Faces,
And could be well content to covet Graces,
Were they not got by boldness; in this thing
My hopes are frozen; and but Fate doth bring
Him hither, I would sooner chuse
A Man made out of Snow, and freer use
An Eunuch to my ends:  but since he’s here,
Thus I attempt him.  Thou of men most dear,
Welcome to her, that only for thy sake,
Hath been content to live:  here boldly take
My hand in pledg, this hand, that never yet
Was given away to any:  and but sit
Down on this rushy Bank, whilst I go pull
Fresh Blossoms from the Boughs, or quickly cull
The choicest delicates from yonder Mead,
To make thee Chains, or Chaplets, or to spread
Under our fainting Bodies, when delight
Shall lock up all our senses.  How the sight
Of those smooth rising Cheeks renew the story
Of young Adonis, when in Pride and Glory
He lay infolded ’twixt the beating arms
Of willing Venus:  methinks stronger Charms
Dwell in those speaking eyes, and on that brow
More sweetness than the Painters can allow
To their best pieces:  not Narcissus, he
That wept himself away in memorie
Of his own Beauty, nor Silvanus Boy,
Nor the twice ravish’d Maid, for whom old Troy
Fell by the hand of Pirrhus, may to thee
Be otherwise compar’d, than some dead Tree
To a young fruitful Olive.

Daph.  I can love, But I am loth to say so, lest I prove Too soon unhappy.

Clo.  Happy thou would’st say,
My dearest Daphnis, blush not, if the day
To thee and thy soft heats be enemie,
Then take the coming Night, fair youth ’tis free
To all the World, Shepherd, I’ll meet thee then
When darkness hath shut up the eyes of men,
In yonder Grove:  speak, shall our Meeting hold? 
Indeed you are too bashful, be more bold,
And tell me I.