THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. BY JOHN

FLETCHER.

Clorin, a Shepherdess, watching by the Grave of her Lover, is found by a Satyr.

Clor. Hail holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
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
Myself from all ensuing 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 sate crown'd with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's 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 memory :
That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I in honour of thy love,

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Dwell

Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remem'bring what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs.
That will I practice, 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 lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thick'ned with misty film of dulling rheum:
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.

My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries, and chesnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit

Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine.
On these I'll feed with free content and rest,

When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.
A Satyr enters.

Satyr. Thorough 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!
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 mortality

Dare

Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live therefore on this mold
Lowly do I bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.

Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits: and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells,
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's 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-eyed Driope

Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb.
See how well the lusty time

Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
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.

Clor. And all my fears go with thee.

What

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 it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and

The self same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)

And now I do believe it, if I keep

groves,

My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair;
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on

Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin,
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites

That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.

Perigot and Amoret appoint to meet at the Virtuous Well. Peri, Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow'd maid, Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, Equal with his soul's good.

Amo. Speak, I give

Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still
The same it ever was, as free from ill,

As he whose conversation never knew

The court or city, be thou ever true.

Peri. When I fall off from my affection,

Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires,

First let our great God cease to keep my flocks,
That being left alone without a guard,

The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great heat,
And want of water, rots, or what to us
Of ill is yet unknown, full speedily,
And in their general ruin, let me feel.

Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so:
I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me

To think thee false, and harder than for thee
To hold me foul.

Peri. O you are fairer far

Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star
That guides the wand'ring sea-men through the deep,
Straiter than straitest pine upon the steep

Head of an aged mountain, and more white
Than the new milk we strip before day-light
From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks.
Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks
Of young Apollo.

Amo. Shepherd, be not lost,

Y'are sail'd too far already from the coast
Of our discourse.

Peri. Did you not tell me once

I should not love alone, I should not lose
Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths,
I've sent to heaven? did you not give your hand,
Even that fair hand, in hostage? Do not then
Give back again those sweets to other men,
You yourself vow'd were mine.

Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty
May give assurance, I am once more thine.
Once more I give my hand; be ever free
From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy.
Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire,
For stronger confirmation of our love,
To meet this happy night in that fair grove,
Where all true shepherds have rewarded been
For their long service. Say, sweet, shall it hold?
Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me if I make

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