MIR. But newly made, and fashion'd to my purpose; Brought hither to make good my own positions Against the company of puling lovers; Which if I do not, and with good effect, Let me be one myself; and that's a torture Worse than Apollo laid upon the satyr, When the rude villain durst contend with him. Look this way, Hylas; see OEnone here-- The fairest nymph that ever Ida bless'd, Court her departing shepherd, who is now Turning his love unto a fairer object; And for his judgment in variety. See how the sea-born goddess and the Graces Present their darling Helena to him! Be happy in thy choice, and draw a war On thee and thine, rather than set thy heart Upon a stale delight. Do, let her weep, And say thou art inconstant. Be so still; The queen of love commands it: you, that are The old companions of your Paris here, Move in a well-pac'd measure, that may show The goddess how you are content for her Fair sake to leave the honour of your woods; But first let her and all the Graces sing The invitation to your offering. _Venus and the Graces sing._ _Come, lovely boy, unto my court,_ _And leave these uncouth woods, and all_ _That feed thy fancy with love's gall;_ _But keep away the honey and the sport._ CHORUS. _Come unto me,_ _And with variety_ _Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and I._ 2. _There is no music in a voice_ _That is but one, and still the same:_ _Inconstancy is but a name_ _To fright poor lovers from a better choice._ CHORUS. _Come then to me, &c._ 3. _Orpheus, that on Eurydice_ _Spent all his love, on others scorn,_ _Now on the banks of Hebrus torn,_ _Finds the reward of foolish constancy._ CHORUS. _Come then to me, &c._ 4. _And sigh no more for one love lost:_ _I have a thousand Cupids here,_ _Shall recompense with better cheer_ _Thy misspent labours and thy bitter cost._ CHORUS. _Come then to me, &c._ _The dance ended, enter a Messenger._ NUN. Shepherds, if you have any pity, come And see a woful spectacle. MIR. What is't, That can be worth the breaking of our sports? NUN. The gentle nymph Nerina-- HYL. What of her? NUN. The last of her: I think see lies a-dying, And calls to speak with you. HYL. Curse of your follies! Do I live here whilst she is dying there? MIR. But, shepherd, what disease is't that so soon Could spend his force upon her? she was well This morning, when she made poor Hylas sick.