Shep. Fresh Beauty, let me not be thought uncivil,

      Thus to be Partner of your loneness: 'twas

      My Love (that ever working passion) drew

      Me to this place to seek some remedy

      For my sick Soul: be not unkind and fair,

      For such the mighty Cupid in his doom

      Hath sworn to be aveng'd on; then give room

      To my consuming Fires, that so I may

      Enjoy my long Desires, and so allay

      Those flames that else would burn my life away.

      Ama. Shepherd, were I but sure thy heart were sound

      As thy words seem to be, means might be found

      To cure thee of thy long pains; for to me

      That heavy youth-consuming Miserie

      The love-sick Soul endures, never was pleasing;

      I could be well content with the quick easing

      Of thee, and thy hot fires, might it procure

      Thy faith and farther service to be sure.

      Shep. Name but that great work, danger, or what can

      Be compass'd by the Wit or Art of Man,

      And if I fail in my performance, may

      I never more kneel to the rising Day.

      Ama. Then thus I try thee, Shepherd, this same night,

      That now comes stealing on, a gentle pair

      Have promis'd equal Love, and do appoint

      To make yon Wood the place where hands and hearts

      Are to be ty'd for ever: break their meeting

      And their strong Faith, and I am ever thine.

      Shep. Tell me their Names, and if I do not move

      (By my great power) the Centre of their Love

      From his fixt being, let me never more

      Warm me by those fair Eyes I thus adore.

      Ama. Come, as we go, I'll tell thee what they are,

      And give thee fit directions for thy work. [Exeunt.

      Cloe. How have I wrong'd the times, or men, that thus

      After this holy Feast I pass unknown

      And unsaluted? 'twas not wont to be

      Thus frozen with the younger companie

      Of jolly Shepherds; 'twas not then held good,

      For lusty Grooms to mix their quicker blood

      With that dull humour, most unfit to be

      The friend of man, cold and dull Chastitie.

      Sure I am held not fair, or am too old,

      Or else not free enough, or from my fold

      Drive not a flock sufficient great, to gain

      The greedy eyes of wealth-alluring Swain:

      Yet if I may believe what others say,

      My face has soil enough; nor can they lay

      Justly too strict a Coyness to my Charge;

      My Flocks are many, and the Downs as large

      They feed upon: then let it ever be

      Their Coldness, not my Virgin Modestie

      Makes me complain.

      The. Was ever Man but I

      Thus truly taken with uncertainty?

      Where shall that Man be found that loves a mind

      Made up in Constancy, and dare not find

      His Love rewarded? here let all men know

      A Wretch that lives to love his Mistress so.

      Clo. Shepherd, I pray thee stay, where hast thou been?

      Or whither go'st thou? here be Woods as green

      As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet,

      As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet

      Face of the curled Streams, with Flowers as many

      As the young Spring gives, and as choise as any;

      Here be all new Delights, cool Streams and Wells,

      Arbors o'rgrown with Woodbinds, Caves, and Dells,

      Chase where thou wilt, whilst I sit by, and sing,

      Or gather Rushes to make many a Ring

      For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of Love,

      How the pale Phoebe hunting in a Grove,

      First saw the Boy Endymion, from whose Eyes

      She took eternal fire that never dyes;

      How she convey'd him softly in a sleep,

      His temples bound with poppy to the steep

      Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,

      Gilding the Mountain with her Brothers light,

      To kiss her sweetest.

      The. Far from me are these

      Hot flashes, bred from wanton heat and ease;

      I have forgot what love and loving meant:

      Rhimes, Songs, and merry Rounds, that oft are sent

      To the soft Ears of Maids, are strange to me;

      Only I live t' admire a Chastitie,

      That neither pleasing Age, smooth tongue, or Gold,

      Could ever break upon, so pure a Mold

      Is that her Mind was cast in; 'tis to her

      I only am reserv'd; she is my form I stir

      By, breath and move, 'tis she and only she

      Can make me happy, or give miserie.

      Clo. Good Shepherd, may a Stranger crave to know

      To whom this dear observance you do ow?

      The. You may, and by her Vertue learn to square

      And level out your Life; for to be fair

      And nothing vertuous, only fits the Eye

      Of gaudy Youth, and swelling Vanitie.

      Then know, she's call'd the Virgin of the Grove,

      She that hath long since bury'd her chaste Love,

      And now lives by his Grave, for whose dear Soul

      She hath vow'd her self into the holy Roll

      Of strict Virginity; 'tis her I so admire,

      Not any looser Blood, or new desire.

      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.

        Come