The Faithful Shepherdess Part 5

_Amo._ Stay _Perigot_, my love, thou art unjust.

_Peri._ Death is the best reward that's due to l.u.s.t. [_Exit_ Perigot.

_Sul._ Now shall their love be crost, for being struck, I'le throw her in the Fount, lest being took By some night-travaller, whose honest care May help to cure her. Shepherdess prepare Your self to die.

_Amo._ No Mercy I do crave, Thou canst not give a worse blow than I have; Tell him that gave me this, who lov'd him too, He struck my soul, and not my body through, Tell him when I am dead, my soul shall be At peace, if he but think he injur'd me.

_Sul._ In this Fount be thy grave, thou wert not meant Sure for a woman, thou art so innocent. [_flings her into the well_ She cannot scape, for underneath the ground, In a long hollow the clear spring is bound, Till on yon side where the Morns Sun doth look, The strugling water breaks out in a Brook. [_Exit._

[_The G.o.d of the River riseth with_ Amoret _in his arms._

_G.o.d._ What powerfull charms my streams do bring Back again unto their spring, With such force, that I their G.o.d, Three times striking with my Rod, Could not keep them in their ranks: My Fishes shoot into the banks, There's not one that stayes and feeds, All have hid them in the weeds.

Here's a mortal almost dead, Faln into my River head, Hallowed so with many a spell, That till now none ever fell.

'Tis a Female young and clear, Cast in by some Ravisher.

See upon her breast a wound, On which there is no plaister bound.

Yet she's warm, her pulses beat, 'Tis a sign of life and heat.

If thou be'st a Virgin pure, I can give a present cure: Take a drop into thy wound From my watry locks more round Than Orient Pearl, and far more pure Than unchast flesh may endure.

See she pants, and from her flesh The warm blood gusheth out afresh.

She is an unpolluted maid; I must have this bleeding staid.

From my banks I pluck this flower With holy hand, whose vertuous power Is at once to heal and draw.

The blood returns. I never saw A fairer Mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak.

_Amo._ Who hath restor'd my sense, given me new breath, And brought me back out of the arms of death?

_G.o.d._ I have heal'd thy wounds.

_Amo._ Ay me!

_G.o.d._ Fear not him that succour'd thee: I am this Fountains G.o.d; below, My waters to a River grow, And 'twixt two banks with Osiers set, That only prosper in the wet, Through the Meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on every side, Sometimes winding round about, To find the evenest channel out.

And if thou wilt go with me, Leaving mortal companie, In the cool streams shalt thou lye, Free from harm as well as I: I will give thee for thy food, No Fish that useth in the mud, But Trout and Pike that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Through the pure streams may be seen: Orient Pearl fit for a Queen, Will I give thy love to win, And a sh.e.l.l to keep them in: Not a Fish in all my Brook That shall disobey thy look, But when thou wilt, come sliding by, And from thy white hand take a fly.

And to make thee understand, How I can my waves command, They shall bubble whilst I sing Sweeter than the silver spring.

_The SONG.

Do not fear to put thy feet Naked in the River sweet; Think not Leach, or Newt or Toad Will bite thy foot, when thou hast troad; Nor let the water rising high, As thou wad'st in, make thee crie And sob, but ever live with me, And not a wave shall trouble thee._

_Amo._ Immortal power, that rul'st this holy flood, I know my self unworthy to be woo'd By thee a G.o.d: for e're this, but for thee I should have shown my weak Mortalitie: Besides, by holy Oath betwixt us twain, I am betroath'd unto a Shepherd swain, Whose comely face, I know the G.o.ds above May make me leave to see, but not to love.

_G.o.d._ May he prove to thee as true.

Fairest Virgin, now adieu, I must make my waters fly, Lest they leave their Channels dry, And beasts that come unto the spring Miss their mornings watering, Which I would not; for of late All the neighbour people sate On my banks, and from the fold, Two white Lambs of three weeks old Offered to my Deitie: For which this year they shall be free From raging floods, that as they pa.s.s Leave their gravel in the gra.s.s: Nor shall their Meads be overflown, When their gra.s.s is newly mown.

_Amo._ For thy kindness to me shown, Never from thy banks be blown Any tree, with windy force, Cross thy streams, to stop thy course: May no beast that comes to drink, With his horns cast down thy brink; May none that for thy fish do look, Cut thy banks to damm thy Brook; Bare-foot may no Neighbour wade In thy cool streams, wife nor maid, When the sp.a.w.ns on stones do lye, To wash their Hemp, and spoil the Fry.

_G.o.d._ Thanks Virgin, I must down again, Thy wound will put thee to no pain: Wonder not so soon 'tis gone: A holy hand was laid upon.

_Amo._ And I unhappy born to be, Must follow him that flies from me.

_Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Perigot.

_Per._ She is untrue, unconstant, and unkind, She's gone, she's gone, blow high thou North-west wind, And raise the Sea to Mountains, let the Trees That dare oppose thy raging fury, leese Their firm foundation, creep into the Earth, And shake the world, as at the monstrous birth Of some new Prodigy, whilst I constant stand, Holding this trustie Boar-spear in my hand, And falling thus upon it.

_Enter_ Amaryllis, _running._

_Amar._ Stay thy dead-doing hand, thou art too hot Against thy self, believe me comely Swain, If that thou dyest, not all the showers of Rain The heavy clods send down can wash away That foul unmanly guilt, the world will lay Upon thee. Yet thy love untainted stands: Believe me, she is constant, not the sands Can be so hardly numbred as she won: I do not trifle, _Shepherd_, by the Moon, And all those lesser lights our eyes do view, All that I told thee _Perigot_, is true: Then be a free man, put away despair, And will to dye, smooth gently up that fair Dejected forehead: be as when those eyes Took the first heat.

_Per._ Alas he double dyes, That would believe, but cannot; 'tis not well Ye keep me thus from dying, here to dwell With many worse companions: but oh death, I am not yet inamour'd of this breath So much, but I dare leave it, 'tis not pain In forcing of a wound, nor after gain Of many dayes, can hold me from my will: 'Tis not my self, but _Amoret_, bids kill.

_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.

_Satyr._ I am the _Satyr_ that did fill Your lap with early fruit, and will, When I hap to gather more, Bring ye better and more store: Yet I come not empty now, See a blossom from the bow, But beshrew his heart that pull'd it, And his perfect sight that cull'd it From the other springing blooms; For a sweeter youth the Grooms Cannot show me, nor the downs, Nor the many neighbouring towns; Low in yonder glade I found him, Softly in mine Arms I bound him, Hither have I brought him sleeping In a trance, his wounds fresh weeping, In remembrance such youth may Spring and perish in a day.

_Clor._ _Satyr_, they wrong thee, that do term thee rude, Though thou beest outward rough and tawny hu'd, Thy manners are as gentle and as fair As his, who brags himself, born only heir To all Humanity: let me see the wound: This Herb will stay the current being bound Fast to the Orifice, and this restrain Ulcers, and swellings, and such inward pain, As the cold air hath forc'd into the sore: This to draw out such putrifying gore As inward falls.

_Satyr._ Heaven grant it may doe good.

_Clor._ Fairly wipe away the blood: Hold him gently till I fling Water of a vertuous spring On his temples; turn him twice To the Moon beams, pinch him thrice, That the labouring soul may draw From his great eclipse.

_Satyr._ I saw His eye-lids moving.

_Clo._ Give him breath, All the danger of cold death Now is vanisht; with this Plaster, And this unction, do I master All the festred ill that may Give him grief another day.

_Satyr._ See he gathers up his spright And begins to hunt for light; Now he gapes and breaths again: How the blood runs to the vein, That erst was empty!

_Alex._ O my heart, My dearest, dearest _Cloe_, O the smart Runs through my side: I feel some pointed thing Pa.s.s through my Bowels, sharper than the sting Of Scorpion.

Pan preserve me, what are you?

Do not hurt me, I am true To my _Cloe_, though she flye, And leave me to thy destiny.

There she stands, and will not lend Her smooth white hand to help her friend: