The Faithful Shepherdess

Clor. Now let me know what my best Art hath done,Helpt by the great power of the vertuous moonIn her full light; O you sons of Earth,You only brood, unto whose happy birthVertue was given, holding more of natureThan man her first born and most perfect creature,Let me adore you; you that only canHelp or kill nature, drawing out that spanOf life and breath even to the end of time;You that these hands did crop, long before primeOf day; give me your names, and next your hidden power.This is the Clote bearing a yellow flower,And this black Horehound, both are very goodFor sheep or Shepherd, bitten by a wood-Dogs venom'd tooth; these Ramuns branches are,Which stuck in entries, or about the barThat holds the door fast, kill all inchantments, charms,Were they Medeas verses that doe harmsTo men or cattel; these for frenzy beA speedy and a soveraign remedie,The bitter Wormwood, Sage, and Marigold,Such sympathy with mans good they do hold;This Tormentil, whose vertue is to partAll deadly killing poyson from the heart;And here Narcissus roots for swellings be:Yellow Lysimacus, to give sweet restTo the faint Shepherd, killing where it comesAll busie gnats, and every fly that hums:For leprosie, Darnel, and Sellondine,With Calamint, whose vertues do refineThe blood of man, making it free and fairAs the first hour it breath'd, or the best air.Here other two, but your rebellious useIs not for me, whose goodness is abuse;Therefore foul Standergrass, from me and mineI banish thee, with lustful Turpentine,You that intice the veins and stir the heatTo civil mutiny, scaling the seatOur reason moves in, and deluding itWith dreams and wanton fancies, till the fitOf burning lust be quencht; by appetite,Robbing the soul of blessedness and light:And thou light Varvin too, thou must go after,Provoking easie souls to mirth and laughter;No more shall I dip thee in water now,And sprinkle every post, and every boughWith thy well pleasing juyce, to make the groomsSwell with high mirth, as with joy all the rooms.

Enter Thenot.

The. This is the Cabin where the best of allHer Sex, that ever breath'd, or ever shallGive heat or happiness to the Shepherds side,Doth only to her worthy self abide.Thou blessed star, I thank thee for thy light,Thou by whose power the darkness of sad nightIs banisht from the Earth, in whose dull placeThy chaster beams play on the heavy faceOf all the world, making the blue Sea smile,To see how cunningly thou dost beguileThy Brother of his brightness, giving dayAgain from Chaos, whiter than that wayThat leads to Joves high Court, and chaster farThan chastity it self, yon blessed starThat nightly shines: Thou, all the constancieThat in all women was, or e're shall be,From whose fair eye-balls flyes that holy fire,That Poets stile the Mother of desire,Infusing into every gentle brestA soul of greater price, and far more blestThan that quick power, which gives a difference,'Twixt man and creatures of a lower sense.Clor. Shepherd, how cam'st thou hither to this place?No way is troden, all the verdant grassThe spring shot up, stands yet unbruised hereOf any foot, only the dapled DeerFar from the feared sound of crooked hornDwels in this fastness.Th. Chaster than the morn,I have not wandred, or by strong illusionInto this vertuous place have made intrusion:But hither am I come (believe me fair)To seek you out, of whose great good the airIs full, and strongly labours, whilst the soundBreaks against Heaven, and drives into a stoundThe amazed Shepherd, that such vertue canBe resident in lesser than a man.Clor. If any art I have, or hidden skillMay cure thee of disease or festred ill,Whose grief or greenness to anothers eyeMay seem impossible of remedy,I dare yet undertake it.The. 'Tis no painI suffer through disease, no beating veinConveyes infection dangerous to the heart,No part impostum'd to be cur'd by Art,This body holds; and yet a feller griefThan ever skilfull hand did give reliefDwells on my soul, and may be heal'd by you,Fair beauteous Virgin.Clor. Then Shepherd, let me sueTo know thy grief; that man yet never knewThe way to health, that durst not shew his sore.Then. Then fairest, know, I love you.C[l]or. Swain, no more,Thou hast abus'd the strictness of this place,And offred Sacrilegious foul disgraceTo the sweet rest of these interred bones,For fear of whose ascending, fly at once,Thou and thy idle passions, that the sightOf death and speedy vengeance may not frightThy very soul with horror.Then. Let me not (Thou all perfection) merit such a blotFor my true zealous faith.Clor. Dar'st thou abideTo see this holy Earth at once divideAnd give her body up? for sure it will,If thou pursu'st with wanton flames to fillThis hallowed place; therefore repent and goe,Whilst I with praise appease his Ghost below,That else would tell thee what it were to beA rival in that vertuous love that heImbraces yet.Then. 'Tis not the white or redInhabits in your cheek that thus can wedMy mind to adoration; nor your eye,Though it be full and fair, your forehead high,And smooth as Pelops shoulder; not the smileLies watching in those dimples to beguileThe easie soul, your hands and fingers longWith veins inamel'd richly, nor your tongue,Though it spoke sweeter than Arions Harp,Your hair wove into many a curious warp,Able in endless errour to infoldThe wandring soul, nor the true perfect mouldOf all your body, which as pure doth showIn Maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow.All these, were but your constancie away,Would please me less than a black stormy dayThe wretched Seaman toyling through the deep.But whilst this honour'd strictness you dare keep,Though all the plagues that e're begotten wereIn the great womb of air, were setled here,In opposition, I would, like the tree,Shake off those drops of weakness, and be freeEven in the arm of danger.Clor. Wouldst thou haveMe raise again (fond man) from silent grave,Those sparks that long agoe were buried here,With my dead friends cold ashes?Then. Dearest dear,I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant;Stand strongly to your vow, and do not faint:Remember how he lov'd ye, and be stillThe same Opinion speaks ye; let not will,And that great god of women, appetite,Set up your blood again; do not inviteDesire and fancie from their long exile,To set them once more in a pleasing smile:Be like a rock made firmly up 'gainst allThe power of angry Heaven, or the strong fallOf Neptunes battery; if ye yield, I dieTo all affection; 'tis that loyaltieYe tie unto this grave I so admire;And yet there's something else I would desire,If you would hear me, but withall deny.O Pan, what an uncertain destinyHangs over all my hopes! I will retire,For if I longer stay, this double fireWill lick my life up.Clor. Doe, let time wear outWhat Art and Nature cannot bring about.Then. Farewel thou soul of vertue, and be blestFor ever, whilst that here I wretched restThus to my self; yet grant me leave to dwellIn kenning of this Arbor; yon same dellO'retopt with morning Cypress and sad YewShall be my Cabin, where I'le early rew,Before the Sun hath kist this dew away,The hard uncertain chance which Fate doth layUpon this head.Clor. The gods give quick releaseAnd happy cure unto thy hard disease. [Exeunt.

Enter Sullen Shepherd.

Sullen. I do not love this wench that I should meet,For ne'r did my unconstant eye yet greetThat beauty, were it sweeter or more fair,Than the new blossoms, when the morning airBlows gently on the[m], or the breaking light,When many maiden blushes to our sightShoot from his early face: were all these setIn some neat form before me, 'twould not getThe least love from me; some desire it might,Or present burning: all to me in sightAre equal, be they fair, or black, or brown,Virgin, or careless wanton, I can crownMy appetite with any; swear as oftAnd weep, as any, melt my words as softInto a maiden[s] ears, and tell how longMy heart has been her servant, and how strongMy passions are: call her unkind and cruel,Offer her all I have to gain the JewelMaidens so highly prize: then loath, and fly:This do I hold a blessed destiny.

Enter Amaryllis.

Amar. Hail Shepherd, Pan bless both thy flock and thee,For being mindful of thy word to me.Sul. Welcom fair Shepherdess, thy loving swainGives thee the self same wishes back again,Who till this present hour ne're knew that eye,Could make me cross mine arms, or daily dyeWith fresh consumings: boldly tell me then,How shall we part their faithful loves, and when?Shall I bely him to her, shall I swearHis faith is false, and he loves every where?I'le say he mockt her th' other day to you,Which will by your confirming shew as true,For he is of so pure an honesty,To think (because he will not) none will lye:Or else to him I'le slander Amoret,And say, she but seems chaste; I'le swear she metMe 'mongst the shady Sycamores last nightAnd loosely offred up her flame and spright

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