Quickly clap herbs to her breast;
A man sure is a kind of beast.
_Clor_. With spotless hand, on spotless brest
I put these herbs to give thee rest:
Which till it heal thee, will abide,
If both be pure, if not, off slide.
See it falls off from the wound,
Shepherdess thou art not sound,
Full of lust.
_Satyr_, Who would have thought it,
So fair a face?
_Clor_. Why that hath brought it.
_Amo_. For ought I know or think, these words, my last:
Yet _Pan_ so help me as my thoughts are chast.
_Clor_. And so may _Pan_ bless this my cure,
As all my thoughts are just and pure;
Some uncleanness nigh doth lurk,
That will not let my Medicines work.
_Satyr_ search if thou canst find it.
_Satyr_. Here away methinks I wind it,
Stronger yet: Oh here they be,
Here, here, in a hollow tree,
Two fond mortals have I found.
_Clor_. Bring them out, they are unsound.
_Enter_ Cloe, _and_ Daphnis.
_Satyr_. By the fingers thus I wring ye,
To my _Goddess_ thus I bring ye;
Strife is vain, come gently in,
I scented them, they're full of sin.
_Clor_. Hold _Satyr_, take this Glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the Air from lustfull breath,
To save this Shepherdess from death,
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound for fear the pain encrease.
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