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 bough With thy well pleasing juyce, to make the grooms Swell with high mirth, as with joy all the rooms. _Enter_ Thenot. _The_. This is the Cabin where the best of all Her Sex, that ever breath'd, or ever shall Give 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 night Is banisht from the Earth, in whose dull place Thy chaster beams play on the heavy face Of all the world, making the blue Sea smile, To see how cunningly thou dost beguile Thy Brother of his brightness, giving day Again from _Chaos_, whiter than that way That leads to _Joves_ high Court, and chaster far Than chastity it self, yon blessed star That nightly shines: Thou, all the constancie That 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 brest A soul of greater price, and far more blest Than 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 grass The spring shot up, stands yet unbruised here Of any foot, only the dapled Deer Far from the feared sound of crooked horn Dwels in this fastness. _Th_. Chaster than the morn, I have not wandred, or by strong illusion Into this vertuous place have made intrusion: But hither am I come (believe me fair) To seek you out, of whose great good the air Is full, and strongly labours, whilst the sound Breaks against Heaven, and drives into a stound The amazed Shepherd, that such vertue can Be resident in lesser than a man. _Clor_. If any art I have, or hidden skill May cure thee of disease or festred ill, Whose grief or greenness to anothers eye May seem impossible of remedy, I dare yet undertake it. _The_. 'Tis no pain I suffer through disease, no beating vein Conveyes infection dangerous to the heart, No part impostum'd to be cur'd by Art, This body holds; and yet a feller grief Than ever skilfull hand did give relief Dwells on my soul, and may be heal'd by you, Fair beauteous Virgin. _Clor_. Then Shepherd, let me sue To know thy grief; that man yet never knew The 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 disgrace To the sweet rest of these interred bones, For fear of whose ascending, fly at once, Thou and thy idle passions, that the sight Of death and speedy vengeance may not fright Thy very soul with horror. _Then_. Let me not (Thou all perfection) merit such a blot For my true zealous faith.