_Cro._ When we believ'd the Stag was spent, and would take soil, The sight of the black lake which we suppos'd He chose for his last refuge, frighted him more Than we that did pursue him. _Jul._ That's usual; for, death it self is not so terrible To any beast of chase. _Hip._ Since we liv'd here, we ne'er could force one to it. _Cro._ 'Tis so dreadful, Birds that with their pinions cleave the air Dare not flie over it: when the Stag turn'd head, And we, even tir'd with labor, _Clarinda_, as if She were made of Air and Fire, And had no part of earth in her, eagerly pursu'd him; Nor need we fear her safety, this place yields not Fawns nor Satyrs, or more lustful men; Here we live secure, And have among our selves a Common-wealth, Which in our selves begun, with us must end. _Jul._ I, there's the misery. _Cro._ But being alone, Allow me freedom but to speak my thoughts; The strictness of our Governess, that forbids us, On pain of death, the sight and use of men, Is more than tyranny: for her self, she's past Those youthful heats, and feels not the want Of that which young maids long for: and her daughter The fair _Clarinda_, though in few years Improv'd in height and large proportion, Came here so young, That scarce remembring that she had a father, She never dreams of man; and should she see one, In my opinion, a would appear a strange beast to her. _Jul._ 'Tis not so with us. _Hip._ For my part, I confess it, I was not made For this single life; nor do I love hunting so, But that I had rather be the chace my self. _Cro._ By _Venus_ (out upon me) I should have sworn By _Diana_, I am of thy mind too wench; And though I have ta'en an oath, not alone To detest, but never to think of man, Every hour something tels me I am forsworn; For I confess, imagination helps me sometimes, And that's all is left for us to feed on, We might starve else, for if I have any pleasure In this life, but when I sleep, I am a Pagan; Then from the Courtier to the Countrey-clown, I have strange visions. _Jul._ Visions _Crocale_? _Cro._ Yes, and fine visions too; And visions I hope in dreams are harmless, And not forbid by our Canons; the last night (Troth 'tis a foolish one, but I must tell it) As I lay in my Cabin, betwixt sleeping and waking. _Hip._ Upon your back? _Cro._ How should a young Maid lie, fool, When she would be intranc'd? _Hip._ We are instructed; forward I prethee. _Cro._ Methought a sweet young man In years some twenty, with a downy chin, Promising a future beard, and yet no red one, Stole slylie to my Cabin all unbrac'd, Took me in his arms, and kiss'd me twenty times, Yet still I slept. _Jul._ Fie; thy lips run over _Crocale_. But to the rest.