The Faithful Shepherdess | Page 7

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.
Clor. Dar'st thou abide
To see this holy Earth at once divide
And
give her body up? for sure it will,
If thou pursu'st with wanton flames
to fill
This hallowed place; therefore repent and goe,
Whilst I with
praise appease his Ghost below,
That else would tell thee what it
were to be
A rival in that vertuous love that he
Imbraces yet.
Then. 'Tis not the white or red
Inhabits in your cheek that thus can
wed
My mind to adoration; nor your eye,
Though it be full and fair,
your forehead high,
And smooth as
Pelops shoulder; not the smile

Lies watching in those dimples to beguile
The easie soul, your hands
and fingers long
With veins inamel'd richly, nor your tongue,


Though it spoke sweeter than Arions Harp,
Your hair wove into many
a curious warp,
Able in endless errour to infold
The wandring soul,
nor the true perfect mould
Of all your body, which as pure doth show

In Maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow.
All these, were but your
constancie away,
Would please me less than a black stormy day

The wretched Seaman toyling through the deep.
But whilst this
honour'd strictness you dare keep,
Though all the plagues that e're
begotten were
In the great womb of air, were setled here,
In
opposition, I would, like the tree,
Shake off those drops of weakness,
and be free
Even in the arm of danger.
Clor. Wouldst thou have
Me raise again (fond man) from silent grave,

Those sparks that long agoe were buried here,
With my dead
friends cold ashes?
Then. Dearest dear,
I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant;
Stand
strongly to your vow, and do not faint:
Remember how he lov'd ye,
and be still
The same Opinion speaks ye; let not will,
And that great
god of women, appetite,
Set up your blood again; do not invite

Desire and fancie from their long exile,
To set them once more in a
pleasing smile:
Be like a rock made firmly up 'gainst all
The power
of angry Heaven, or the strong fall
Of Neptunes battery; if ye yield, I
die
To all affection; 'tis that loyaltie
Ye tie unto this grave I so
admire;
And yet there's something else I would desire,
If you would
hear me, but withall deny.
O Pan, what an uncertain destiny
Hangs
over all my hopes! I will retire,
For if I longer stay, this double fire

Will lick my life up.
Clor
. Doe, let time wear out
What Art and Nature cannot bring about.
Then. Farewel thou soul of vertue, and be blest
For ever, whilst that
here I wretched rest
Thus to my self; yet grant me leave to dwell
In
kenning of this Arbor; yon same dell
O'retopt with morning Cypress
and sad Yew
Shall be my Cabin, where I'le early rew,
Before the

Sun hath kist this dew away,
The hard uncertain chance which Fate
doth lay
Upon this head.
Clor. The gods give quick release
And happy cure unto thy hard
disease. [Exeunt.
Enter Sullen Shepherd.
Sullen. I do not love this wench that I should meet,
For ne'r did my
unconstant eye yet greet
That beauty, were it sweeter or more fair,

Than the new blossoms, when the morning air
Blows gently on
the[m], or the breaking light,
When many maiden blushes to our sight

Shoot from his early face: were all these set
In some neat form
before me, 'twould not get
The least love from me; some desire it
might,
Or present burning: all to me in sight
Are equal, be they fair,
or black, or brown,
Virgin, or careless wanton, I can crown
My
appetite with any; swear as oft
And weep, as any, melt my words as
soft
Into a maiden[s] ears, and tell