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The Faithful Shepherdess The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher (Volume 2 of 10).

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Actus Primus. Scena Prima.

Enter Clorin a shepherdess, having buried her Love in an Arbour.

Hail, holy Earth, whose cold Arms do imbraceThe truest man that ever fed his flocksBy the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly,Thus I salute thy Grave, thus do I payMy early vows, and tribute of mine eyesTo thy still loved ashes; thus I freeMy self from all insuing heats and firesOf love: all sports, delights and jolly gamesThat Shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirtWith youthful Coronals, and lead the Dance;No more the company of fresh fair MaidsAnd wanton Shepherds be to me delightful,Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipesUnder some shady dell, when the cool windPlays on the leaves: all be far away,Since thou art far away; by whose dear sideHow often have I sat Crown'd with fresh flowersFor summers Queen, whil'st every Shepherds BoyPuts 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 memorie;That shall out-live thee, and shall ever springWhilest there are pipes, or jolly Shepherds sing.And here will I in honour of thy love,Dwell by thy Grave, forgeting all those joys,That former times made precious to mine eyes,Only remembring what my youth did gainIn the dark, hidden vertuous use of Herbs:That will I practise, and as freely giveAll my endeavours, as I gain'd them free.Of all green wounds I know the remediesIn 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 heatGrown wild or Lunatick, their eyes or earsThickned with misty filme of dulling Rheum,These I can Cure, such secret vertue liesIn Herbs applyed by a Virgins hand:My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,Berries, and Chesnuts, Plantanes, on whose Cheeks,The Sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruitPull'd from the fair head of the staight grown Pine;On these I'le feed with free content and rest,When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.

Enter a Satyr.

Satyr. Through yon same bending plainThat flings his arms down to the main,And through these thick woods have I run,Whose bottom never kist the SunSince the lusty Spring began,All to please my master Pan,Have I trotted without restTo get him Fruit; for at a FeastHe entertains this coming nightHis Paramour, the Syrinx bright:But behold a fairer sight! [He stands amazed.By that Heavenly form of thine,Brightest fair thou art divine,Sprung from great immortal raceOf the gods, for in thy faceShines more awful Majesty,Than dull weak mortalitieDare with misty eyes behold,And live: therefore on this moldLowly do I bend my knee,In worship of thy Deitie;Deign it Goddess from my hand,To receive what e're this landFrom her fertil Womb doth sendOf her choice Fruits: and but lendBelief to that the Satyre tells,Fairer by the famous wells,To this present day ne're grew,Never better nor more true....