Sat. To her doom she dares not stand,

[Applies Cloe’s finger to the taper.

Alex. Is not that Cloe? ’Tis my love, ’tis she!
Cloe, fair Cloe!

Cloe. My Alexis!

Alex. He.

Cloe. Let me embrace thee.

Clo. Take her hence,
Lest her sight disturb his sense.

Alex. Take not her; take my life first!

Clo. See, his wound again is burst:
Keep her near, here in the wood,
Till I have stopt these streams of blood.

[Satyr leads off Cloe.

[Draws a curtain before the bower. Scene closes.

SCENE III.—A Pasture.

Enter Old Shepherd and Priest of Pan.

Priest. Sure, they are lost for ever: ’tis in vain
To find them out with trouble and much pain,
That have a ripe desire and forward will
To fly the company of all but ill.
What shall be counselled now? shall we retire,
Or constant follow still that first desire
We had to find them?

Old Shep. Stay a little while;
For, if the morning’s mist do not beguile
My sight with shadows, sure I see a swain;
One of this jolly troop’s come back again.

Enter Thenot.

Priest. Dost thou not blush, young shepherd, to be known
Thus without care leaving thy flocks alone,
And following what desire and present blood
Shapes out before thy burning sense for good;
Having forgot what tongue hereafter may
Tell to the world thy falling off, and say
Thou art regardless both of good and shame.
Spurning at virtue and a virtuous name?
And like a glorious desperate man, that buys
A poison of much price, by which he dies,
Dost thou lay out for lust, whose only gain
Is foul disease, with present age and pain,
And then a grave? These be the fruits that grow
In such hot veins, that only beat to know
Where they may take most ease, and grow ambitious
Through their own wanton fire and pride delicious.

The. Right holy sir, I have not known this night
What the smooth face of mirth was, or the sight
Of any looseness; music, joy, and ease,
Have been to me as bitter drugs to please
A stomach lost with weakness, not a game
That I am skilled at thoroughly: nor a dame,
Went her tongue smoother than the feet of time,
Her beauty ever-living like the rhyme
Our blessèed Tityrus did sing of yore;
No, were she more enticing than the store
Of fruitful summer, when the loaden tree
Bids the faint traveller be bold and free;
’Twere but to