e be a hope
To give it entertainment, for the scope
Of one poor hour; goe, you shall find me next
Under yon shady Beech, even thus perplext,
And thus believing.

_Ama._ Bind before I goe,
Thy soul by _Pan_ unto me, not to doe
Harm or outragious wrong upon thy life,
Till my return.

_Per._ By _Pan_, and by the strife
He had with _Phoebus_ for the Mastery,
When Golden _Midas_ judg'd their _Minstrelcy_,
I will not. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Satyr, _with_ Alexis, _hurt._

_Satyr._ Softly gliding as I goe,
With this burthen full of woe,
Through still silence of the night,
Guided by the Gloe-worms light,
Hither am I come at last,
Many a Thicket have I past
Not a twig that durst deny me,
Not a bush that durst descry me,
To the little Bird that sleeps
On the tender spray: nor creeps
That hardy worm with pointed tail,
But if I be under sail,
Flying faster than the wind,
Leaving all the clouds behind,
But doth hide her tender head
In some hollow tree or bed
Of seeded Nettles: not a Hare
Can be started from his fare,
By my footing, nor a wish
Is more sudden, nor a fish
Can be found with greater ease,
Cut the vast unbounded seas,
Leaving neither print nor sound,
Than I, when nimbly on the ground,
I measure many a league an hour:
But behold the happy power,
That must ease me of my charge,
And by holy hand enlarge
The soul of this sad man, that yet
Lyes fast bound in deadly fit;
Heaven and great _Pan_ succour it!
Hail thou beauty of the bower,
Whiter than the Paramour
Of my Master, let me crave
Thy vertuous help to keep from Grave
This poor Mortal that here lyes,
Waiting when the destinies
Will cut off his thred of life:
View the wound by cruel knife
Trencht into him.

_Clor._ What art thou call'st me from my holy rites,
And with thy feared name of death affrights
My tender Ears? speak me thy name and will.

_Satyr._ I am the _Satyr_ that did fill
Your lap with early fruit, and will,
When I hap to gather more,
Bring ye better and more store:
Yet I come not empty now,
See a blossom from the bow,
But beshrew his heart that pull'd it,
And his perfect sight that cull'd it
From the other springing blooms;
For a sweeter youth the Grooms
Cannot show me, nor the downs,
Nor the many neighbouring towns;
Low in yonder glade I found him,
Softly in mine Arms I bound him,
Hither have I brought him sleeping
In a trance, his wounds fresh weeping,
In remembrance such youth may