_Sat_. By _Pan_, I think she hath no sin, She is so light: lye on these leaves. Sleep that mortal sense deceives, Crown thine Eyes, and ease thy pain, Maist thou soon be well again. _Clor. Satyr_, bring the Shepherd near, Try him if his mind be clear. _Sat_. Shepherd come. _Daph_. My thoughts are pure. _Sat_. The better trial to endure. _Clor_. In this flame his finger thrust, Which will burn him if he lust; But if not, away will turn, As loth unspotted flesh to burn: See, it gives back, let him go, Farewel mortal, keep thee so. _Sat_. Stay fair _Nymph_, flye not so fast, We must try if you be chaste: Here's a hand that quakes for fear, Sure she will not prove so clear. _Clor._ Hold her finger to the flame, That will yield her praise or shame. _Sat._ To her doom she dares not stand, But plucks away her tender hand, And the Taper darting sends His hot beams at her fingers ends: O thou art foul within, and hast A mind, if nothing else, unchaste. _Alex._ Is not that _Cloe?_ 'tis my Love, 'tis she! _Cloe_, fair _Cloe_. _Clo._ My Alexis. _Alex._ He. _Clo._ Let me embrace thee. _Clor._ Take her hence, Lest her sight disturb his sence. _Alex._ Take not her, take my life first. _Clor._ See, his wound again is burst: Keep her near, here in the Wood, Till I ha' stopt these Streams of Blood. Soon again he ease shall find, If I can but still his mind: This Curtain thus I do display, To keep the piercing air away. _Enter_ old Shepherd, _and_ Priest. _Priest_. Sure they are lost for ever; 'tis in vain To find 'em out with trouble and much pain, That have a ripe desire, and forward will To flye the Company of all but ill, What shall be counsel'd now? shall we retire? Or constant follow still that first desire We had to find them? _Old_. Stay a little while; For if the Morning mist do not beguile My sight with shadows, sure I see a Swain; One of this jolly Troop's come back again. _Enter_ Thenot. _Pri._ Dost thou not blush young Shepherd to be known, Thus without care, leaving thy flocks alone, And following what desire and present blood Shapes out before thy burning sense, for good, Having forgot what tongue hereafter may Tell to the World thy falling off, and say Thou art regardless both of good and shame, Spurning at Vertue, and a vertuous Name, And like a glorious, desperate man that buys A poyson of much price, by which he dies, Dost thou lay out for Lust, whose only gain Is foul disease, with present age and pain, And then a Grave? These be the fruits that grow In such hot Veins that only beat to know Where they may take most ease, and grow ambitious Through their own wanton fire, and pride delicious.