Jul. But stay, What's here cast o'th' shore?

      Hip. 'Tis a man;

      Shall I shoot him?

      Cro. No, no, 'tis a handsome beast;

      Would we had more o'th' breed; stand close wenches,

      And let's hear if he can speak.

      Alb. Do I yet live?

      Sure it is ayr I breathe; What place is this?

      Sure something more than humane keeps residence here,

      For I have past the Stygian gulph,

      And touch upon the blessed shore? 'tis so;

      This is the Elizian shade; these happy spirits,

      That here enjoy all pleasures.

      Hip. He makes towards us.

      Jul. Stand, or I'll shoot.

      Cro. Hold, he makes no resistance.

      Alb. Be not offended Goddesses, that I fall

      Thus prostrate at your feet: or if not such,

      But Nymphs of Dian's train, that range these groves,

      Which you forbid to men; vouchsafe to know

      I am a man, a wicked sinful man; and yet not sold

      So far to impudence, as to presume

      To press upon your privacies, or provoke

      Your Heavenly angers; 'tis not for my self

      I beg thus poorly, for I am already wounded,

      Wounded to death, and faint; my last breath

      Is for a Virgin, comes as near your selves

      In all perfection, as what's mortal may

      Resemble things divine. O pitty her,

      And let your charity free her from that desart,

      If Heavenly charity can reach to Hell,

      For sure that place comes near it: and where ere

      My ghost shall find abode,

      Eternally I shall powre blessings on ye.

      Hip. By my life I cannot hurt him.

      Cro. Though I lose my head for it, nor I.

      I must pitty him, and will.

      Jul. But stay, Clarinda?

      Cla. What new game have ye found here, ha!

      What beast is this lies wallowing in his gore?

      Cro. Keep off.

      Cla. Wherefore, I pray? I ne'er turn'd

      From a fell Lioness rob'd of her whelps,

      And, Shall I fear dead carrion?

      Jul. O but.

      Cla. But, What is't?

      Hip. It is infectious.

      Cla. Has it not a name?

      Cro. Yes, but such a name from which

      As from the Devil your Mother commands us flie.

      Cla. Is't a man?

      Clo. It is.

      Cla. What a brave shape it has in death;

      How excellent would it appear had it life!

      Why should it be infectious? I have heard

      My Mother say, I had a Father,

      And was not he a Man?

      Cro. Questionless Madam.

      Cla. Your fathers too were Men?

      Jul. Without doubt Lady.

      Cla. And without such it is impossible

      We could have been.

      Hip. A sin against nature to deny it.

      Cla. Nor can you or I have any hope to be a Mother,

      Without the help of Men.

      Cro. Impossible.

      Cla. Which of you then most barbarous, that knew

      You from a man had Being, and owe to it

      The name of parent, durst presume to kill

      The likeness of that thing by which you are?

      Whose Arrowes made these wounds? speak, or by Dian

      Without distinction I'll let fly at ye all.

      Jul. Not mine.

      Hip. Nor mine.

      Cro. 'Tis strange to see her mov'd thus.

      Restrain your fury Madam; had we kill'd him,

      We had but perform'd your Mothers command.

      Cla. But if she command unjust and cruel things,

      We are not to obey it.

      Cro. We are innocent; some storm did cast

      Him shipwrackt on the shore, as you see wounded:

      Nor durst we be Surgeons to such

      Your Mother doth appoint for death.

      Cla. Weak excuse; Where's pity?

      Where's soft compassion? cruel, and ungrateful

      Did providence offer to your charity

      But one poor Subject to express it on,

      And in't to shew our wants too; and could you

      So carelessly neglect it?

      Hip. For ought I know, he's living yet;

      And may tempt your Mother, by giving him succor.

      Cla. Ha, come near I charge ye.

      So, bend his body softly; rub his temples;

      Nay, that shall be my office: how the red

      Steales into his pale lips! run and fetch the simples

      With which my Mother heal'd my arme

      When last I was wounded by the Bore.

      Cro. Doe: but remember her to come after ye,

      That she may behold her daughters charity.

      Cla. Now he breathes; [Exit Hippolita.

      The ayr passing through the Arabian groves

      Yields not so sweet