jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. 
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. 
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful: 
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves:  all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers
For summer’s queen, whilst every shepherd’s boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging script of finest cordevan! 
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. 
And here will I, in honor of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs. 
That will I practice, and as freely give
All my endeavors, as I gained them free. 
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art;
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum: 

These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin’s hand. 
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine. 
On these I’ll feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed

[A Satyr enters.]

Satyr—­Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun. 
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains this coming night
His paramour the Syrinx bright: 
But behold a fairer sight! 
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live:  therefore on this mold
Lowly do I bend my knee
In worship of thy deity. 
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate’er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and—­but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells—­
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne’er grew,
Never better, nor more true. 
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood