_Sat_. From this glass I throw a drop
Of Crystal water on the top
Of every grass, on flowers a pair:
Send a fume and keep the air
Pure and wholsom, sweet and blest,
Till this Virgins wound be drest.
_Clor. Satyr_, help to bring her in.
_Sat_. By _Pan_, I think she hath no sin,
She is so light: lye on these leaves.
Sleep that mortal sense deceives,
Crown thine Eyes, and ease thy pain,
Maist thou soon be well again.
_Clor. Satyr_, bring the Shepherd near,
Try him if his mind be clear.
_Sat_. Shepherd come.
_Daph_. My thoughts are pure.
_Sat_. The better trial to endure.
_Clor_. In this flame his finger thrust,
Which will burn him if he lust;
But if not, away will turn,
As loth unspotted flesh to burn:
See, it gives back, let him go,
Farewel mortal, keep thee so.
_Sat_. Stay fair _Nymph_, flye not so fast,
We must try if you be chaste:
Here's a hand that quakes for fear,
Sure she will not prove so clear.
_Clor._ Hold her finger to the flame,
That will yield her praise or shame.
_Sat._ To her doom she dares not stand,
But plucks away her tender hand,
And the Taper darting sends
His hot beams at her fingers ends:
O thou art foul within, and hast
A mind, if nothing else, unchaste.
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