Sat. Who would have thought it?
So fair a face!

Clo. Why, that hath brought it.

Amo. For aught I know or think, these words my last,
Yet, Pan so help me as my thoughts are chaste!

Clo. And so may Pan bless this my cure,
As all my thoughts are just and pure!
Some uncleanness nigh doth lurk,
That will not let my medicines work.—
Satyr, search if thou canst find it.

Sat. Here away methinks I wind it:
Stronger yet.—Oh, here they be;
Here, here, in a hollow tree,
Two fond mortals have I found.

Clo. Bring them out; they are unsound.

Sat. [Bringing out Cloe and Daphnis.] By the fingers thus I wring ye,
To my goddess thus I bring ye;
Strife is vain, come gently in.—
I scented them; they’re full of sin.

Clo. Hold, Satyr; take this glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the air from lustful breath,
To save this shepherdess from death:
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound, for fear the pain increase.

Sat. From this glass I throw a drop
Of crystal water on the top
Of every grass, on flowers a pair:
Send a fume, and keep the air
Pure and wholesome, sweet and blest,
Till this virgin’s wound be drest.

Clo. Satyr, help to bring her in.

Sat. By Pan, I think she hath no sin,

[Carrying Amoret into the bower.

Clo. Satyr, bring the shepherd near;
Try him, if his mind be clear.

Sat. Shepherd, come.

Daph. My thoughts are pure.

Sat. The better trial to endure.

Clo. In this flame his finger thrust,
Which will burn him if he lust;
But if not, away will turn,
As loath unspotted flesh to burn.—

[Satyr applies Daphnis’s finger to the taper.

Sat. Farewell, mortal: keep thee so.

[Exit Daphnis.

Clo. Hold her finger to the flame;
That will yield her praise or shame.