The Faithful Shepherdess

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by
Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher
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Title: The Faithful Shepherdess
The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher (Vol. 2 of 10).
Author: Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher
Release Date: April 30, 2004 [EBook #12222]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
0. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jonathan Ingram, Chjarles M. Bidwell
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS
The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher (Vol. 2 of 10)
Actus Primus. Scena Prima.
Enter_ Clorin _a shepherdess, having buried her Love in an Arbour.
Hail, holy Earth, whose cold Arms do imbrace
The truest man that
ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly,
Thus I
salute thy Grave, thus do I pay
My early vows, and tribute of mine
eyes
To thy still loved ashes; thus I free
My self from all insuing
heats and fires
Of love: all sports, delights and jolly games
That

Shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
Now no more shall these
smooth brows be begirt
With youthful Coronals, and lead the Dance;

No more the company of fresh fair Maids
And wanton Shepherds
be to me delightful,
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes

Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all
be far away,
Since thou art far away; by whose dear side
How often
have I sat Crown'd with fresh flowers
For summers Queen, whil'st
every Shepherds Boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,

And hanging scrip of finest Cordevan.
But thou art gone, and these
are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memorie;
That
shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring
Whilest there are pipes, or
jolly Shepherds sing.
And here will I in honour of thy love,
Dwell
by thy Grave, forgeting all those joys,
That former times made
precious to mine eyes,
Only remembring what my youth did gain
In
the dark, hidden vertuous use of Herbs:
That will I practise, and as
freely give
All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free.
Of all green
wounds I know the remedies
In Men or Cattel, be they stung with
Snakes,
Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked Art,
Or be they
Love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild or Lunatick, their
eyes or ears
Thickned with misty filme of dulling Rheum,
These I
can Cure, such secret vertue lies
In Herbs applyed by a Virgins hand:

My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries, and
Chesnuts, Plantanes, on whose Cheeks,
The Sun sits smiling, and the
lofty fruit
Pull'd from the fair head of the staight grown Pine;
On
these I'le feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the
world, by thy side blest.
Enter a Satyr.
Satyr. Through yon same bending plain

That flings his arms down to
the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom
never kist the Sun
Since the lusty Spring began,
All to please my
master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him Fruit; for at a

Feast
He entertains this coming night
His Paramour, the Syrinx
bright:
But behold a fairer sight! [He stands amazed. By that
Heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair thou art divine,
Sprung from
great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful
Majesty,
Than dull weak mortalitie
Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live: therefore on this mold
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In
worship of thy Deitie;
Deign it Goddess from my hand,
To receive
what e're this land
From her fertil Womb doth send
Of her choice
Fruits: and but lend
Belief to that the Satyre tells,
Fairer by the
famous wells,
To this present day ne're grew,
Never better nor more
true.
Here be Grapes whose lusty bloud
Is the learned Poets good,

Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus, Nuts more
brown
Than the Squirrels Teeth that crack them;
Deign O fairest
fair to take them.
For these black ey'd Driope
Hath oftentimes
commanded me,
With my clasped knee to clime;
See how well the
lusty time
Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your
lips is spred,
Here be Berries for a Queen,
Some be red, some be
green,
These are of that luscious meat,
The great God Pan himself
doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,

The hanging
mountain or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you
more, more sweet and strong,
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest
the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a
broad Beeches shade,
I must go, I must run
Swifter than the fiery
Sun. [Exit.
Clo. And all my fears go with thee.
What greatness or what private
hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude
man, and beast? sure I am mortal:
The Daughter of a Shepherd, he
was mortal:
And she that bore me mortal: prick my hand
And