A doubt of what the silent night may do
Maids must be fearful.
Peri. O do not wrong my honest simple truth,
Myself and my affections are as pure
As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine
Of the great Dian: only my intent
To draw you thither, was to plight our troths,
With interchange of mutual chaste embraces,
And ceremonious tying of ourselves.
For to that holy wood is consecrate
A Virtuous Well, about whose flowery banks
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds
By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh, and dull mortality.
By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn
And given away his freedom, many a troth
Been plight, which neither envy nor old time
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given
In hope of coming happiness: by this
Fresh fountain many a blushing maid
Hath crown'd the head of her long loved shepherd
With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung
Lays of his love and dear captivity.
There grow all herbs fit to cool looser flames,
Our sensual parts provoke; chiding our bloods,
And quenching by their power those hidden sparks
That else would break out, and provoke our sense
To open fires-so virtuous is that place.
Then, gentle shepherdess, believe and grant;
In troth it fits not with that face to scant
Your faithful shepherd of those chaste desires
He ever aim'd at.
Amo. Thou hast prevail'd; farewel; this coming
Shall crown thy chaste hopes with long wish'd delight.
Thenot admiring the constancy of Clorin to her dead Lover, rejects the suit of Cloe.
Cloe. Shepherd, I pray thee stay, where hast thou been,
Or whither go'st thou? Here be woods as green
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet,
As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled streams, with flowers as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any.
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells,
Chuse where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she convey'd him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountains with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest.
The. Far from me are these
Hot flashes, bred from wanton heat and ease.
I have forgot what love and loving meant;
Rhimes, songs, and merry rounds, that oft are sent
To the soft ears of maids, are strange to me;
Only I live to admire a chastity,
That neither pleasing age, smooth tongue, or gold,
Could ever break upon, so pure a mold
Is that her mind was cast in; 'tis to her
I only am reserv'd; she is my form I stir
By, breathe and move, 'tis she and only she
Can make me happy, or give me misery.
Cloe. Good shepherd, may a stranger crave to know
To whom this dear observance you do owe?
The. You may, and by her virtue learn to square
And level out your life; for to be fair
And nothing virtuous, only fits the eye
Of gaudy youth and swelling vanity.
Then know, she's call'd the Virgin of the Grove,
She that hath long since buried her chaste love,
And now lives by his grave, for whose dear soul
She hath vow'd herself into the holy roll
Of strict virginity; 'tis her I so admire,
Not any looser blood, or new desire.
Thenot loves Clorin yet fears to gain his suit.
Clor. Shepherd, how cam'st thou hither to this place! No way is trodden; all the verdant grass
The spring shot up, stands yet unbruised here
Of any foot, only the dappled deer
Far from the feared sound of crooked horn
Dwells in this fastness.
The. Chaster than the morn,
I have not wand'red, or by strong illusion
Into this virtuous 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 virtue can
Be resident in lesser than a man.
Clor. If any art I have, or hidden skill,
May cure thee of disease, or fester'd ill,
Whose grief or greenness to another's eye
May seem unpossible of remedy,
I dare yet undertake it.
I suffer through disease, no beating vein
Conveys infection dangerous to the heart,
No part imposthumed, to be cured by art,
This body holds, and yet a feller grief
Than ever skilful 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.
The. Then, fairest, know I love you.
Thou hast abused the strictness of this place,
And offer'd 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.
(Thou all perfection) merit such a blot For my true zealous faith.
Clor. Darest 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 hallow'd place; therefore repent and go,
Whilst I with praise appease his ghost below;
That else would tell thee, what it were to be
A rival in that virtuous love that he
The. '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 easy soul; your hands and fingers long
With veins enamel'd richly; nor your tongue,
Though it spoke sweeter than Arion's harp;
Your hair, wove into many a curious warp,
Able in endless error to enfold
The wand'ring soul; nor the true perfect mold
Of all your body, which as pure doth shew
In maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow:
All these, were but your constancy away,
Would please me less than a black stormy day
The wretched seaman toiling through the deep.
But whilst this honour'd strictness you dare keep,
Though all the plagues that e'er begotten were
In the great womb of air, were settled 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 ago were buried here
With my dead friend's cold ashes?
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 Fancy 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 Neptune's battery; if ye yield, I die
To all affection: 'tis that loyalty,
Ye tie unto this grave, I so admire;
And yet there's something else I would desire
If you would hear me, but withal 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
Clor. The gods give quick release
And happy cure unto thy hard disease.
The God of the River rises with Amoret in his arms, whom the sullen Shepherd has flung wounded into his spring.
River God. What powerful charms my streams de bring
Back again unto their spring,
With such force, that I their god,
Three times striking with my rod,
Could not keep them in their ranks ?
My fishes shoot into the banks,
There's not one that stays and feeds,
All have hid them in the weeds.
Here's a mortal almost dead
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