d and body both will mend.

_Enter_ Satyr, _with_ Amoret.

_Amo_. Beest thou the wildest creature of the wood,
That bearst me thus away, drown'd in my blood,
And dying, know I cannot injur'd be,
I am a maid, let that name fight for me.

_Satyr_. Fairest Virgin do not fear
Me, that do thy body bear,
Not to hurt, but heal'd to be;
Men are ruder far than we.
See fair _Goddess_ in the wood,
They have let out yet more blood.
Some savage man hath struck her breast
So soft and white, that no wild beast
Durst ha' toucht asleep, or wake:
So sweet, that _Adder, Newte_, or _Snake_,
Would have lain from arm to arm,
On her bosom to be warm
All a night, and being hot,
Gone away and stung her not.
Quickly clap herbs to her breast;
A man sure is a kind of beast.

_Clor_. With spotless hand, on spotless brest
I put these herbs to give thee rest:
Which till it heal thee, will abide,
If both be pure, if not, off slide.
See it falls off from the wound,
Shepherdess thou art not sound,
Full of lust.

_Satyr_, Who would have thought it,
So fair a face?

_Clor_. Why that hath brought it.

_Amo_. For ought I know or think, these words, my last:
Yet _Pan_ so help me as my thoughts are chast.

_Clor_. 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.

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

_Clor_. Bring them out, they are unsound.

_Enter_ Cloe, _and_ Daphnis.

_Satyr_. 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.

_Clor_. Hold _Satyr_, take this Glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the Air from lustfull breath,
To save this Shepherdess from death,
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound for fear the pain encrease.

_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 wholsom, sweet and blest,
Till this Virgins wound be drest.

_Clor. Satyr_, help to bring her in.

_Sat_. By _Pan_, I think she hath no sin,
She is so light: lye on these leaves.
Sleep that mortal sense deceives,
Crown thine Eyes, and ease thy pain,
Maist thou soon be well again.

_Clor. Satyr_, bring the Shepherd near,
Try him i