_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
Pass 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:
But I am much mistaken, for that face
Bears more Austerity and modest grace,
More reproving and more awe
Than these eyes yet ever saw
In my Cloe.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65