Hail, holy Earth, whose cold Arms do imbrace

      The truest man that ever fed his flocks

      By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly,

      Thus I salute thy Grave, thus do I pay

      My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes

      To thy still loved ashes; thus I free

      My self from all insuing heats and fires

      Of love: all sports, delights and 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 Crown'd with fresh flowers

      For summers Queen, whil'st every Shepherds Boy

      Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,

      And hanging scrip of finest Cordevan.

      But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,

      And all are dead but thy dear memorie;

      That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring

      Whilest there are pipes, or jolly Shepherds sing.

      And here will I in honour of thy love,

      Dwell by thy Grave, forgeting all those joys,

      That former times made precious to mine eyes,

      Only remembring what my youth did gain

      In the dark, hidden vertuous use of Herbs:

      That will I practise, and as freely give

      All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free.

      Of all green wounds I know the remedies

      In Men or Cattel, be they stung with Snakes,

      Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked Art,

      Or be they Love-sick, or through too much heat

      Grown wild or Lunatick, their eyes or ears

      Thickned with misty filme of dulling Rheum,

      These I can Cure, such secret vertue lies

      In Herbs applyed by a Virgins hand:

      My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,

      Berries, and Chesnuts, Plantanes, on whose Cheeks,

      The Sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit

      Pull'd from the fair head of the staight grown Pine;

      On these I'le feed with free content and rest,

      When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.

      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 kist 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! [He stands amazed.

      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 mortalitie

      Dare with misty eyes behold,

      And live: therefore on this mold

      Lowly do I bend my knee,

      In worship of thy Deitie;

      Deign it Goddess from my hand,

      To receive what e're this land

      From her fertil Womb doth send

      Of her choice Fruits: and but lend

      Belief to that the Satyre tells,

      Fairer by the famous wells,

      To this present day ne're grew,

      Never better nor more true.

      Here be Grapes whose lusty bloud

      Is the learned Poets 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 ey'd Driope

      Hath oftentimes commanded me,

      With my clasped knee to clime;

      See how well the lusty time

      Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red,

      Such as on your lips is spred,

      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 Beeches shade,

      I must go, I must run

      Swifter than the fiery Sun. [Exit.

      Clo. 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 Feaver 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 uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair,

      No Goblin, Wood-god, Fairy, Elfe, 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 voyces calling me in