_Ama._ Stay but a little, little, but one hour, And if I do not show thee through the power Of herbs and words I have, as dark as night, My self turn'd to thy _Amoret_, in sight, Her very figure, and the Robe she wears, With tawny Buskins, and the hook she bears Of thine own Carving, where your names are set, Wrought underneath with many a curious fret, The _Prim-Rose_ Chaplet, taudry-lace and Ring, Thou gavest her for her singing, with each thing Else that she wears about her, let me feel The first fell stroke of that Revenging steel. _Per._ I am contented, if there be a hope To give it entertainment, for the scope Of one poor hour; goe, you shall find me next Under yon shady Beech, even thus perplext, And thus believing. _Ama._ Bind before I goe, Thy soul by _Pan_ unto me, not to doe Harm or outragious wrong upon thy life, Till my return. _Per._ By _Pan_, and by the strife He had with _Phoebus_ for the Mastery, When Golden _Midas_ judg'd their _Minstrelcy_, I will not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Satyr, _with_ Alexis, _hurt._ _Satyr._ Softly gliding as I goe, With this burthen full of woe, Through still silence of the night, Guided by the Gloe-worms light, Hither am I come at last, Many a Thicket have I past Not a twig that durst deny me, Not a bush that durst descry me, To the little Bird that sleeps On the tender spray: nor creeps That hardy worm with pointed tail, But if I be under sail, Flying faster than the wind, Leaving all the clouds behind, But doth hide her tender head In some hollow tree or bed Of seeded Nettles: not a Hare Can be started from his fare, By my footing, nor a wish Is more sudden, nor a fish Can be found with greater ease, Cut the vast unbounded seas, Leaving neither print nor sound, Than I, when nimbly on the ground, I measure many a league an hour: But behold the happy power, That must ease me of my charge, And by holy hand enlarge The soul of this sad man, that yet Lyes fast bound in deadly fit; Heaven and great _Pan_ succour it! Hail thou beauty of the bower, Whiter than the Paramour Of my Master, let me crave Thy vertuous help to keep from Grave This poor Mortal that here lyes, Waiting when the destinies Will cut off his thred of life: View the wound by cruel knife Trencht into him. _Clor._ What art thou call'st me from my holy rites, And with thy feared name of death affrights My tender Ears? speak me thy name and will.