Is the learned poet’s good;
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus:  nuts more brown
Than the squirrels’ teeth that crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. 
For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb. 
See how well the lusty time
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread. 
Here be berries for a queen;
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat: 
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech’s shade. 
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.

Clorin—­And all my fears go with thee. 
What greatness, or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man and beast? sure.  I am mortal,
The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand
And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and
The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold:  my fear says I am mortal: 
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin. 
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
Thus mildly kneel to me?  Sure there’s a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines.  Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I’ll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.

SONG

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

     SONG

     God Lyaeus, ever young,
     Ever honored, ever sung,
     Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
     In a thousand lusty shapes,
     Dance upon the mazer’s brim,