Sat. Who would have thought it?
Clo. Why, that hath brought it.
Amo. For aught I know or think, these words my last,
Clo. And so may Pan bless this my cure,
Sat. Here away methinks I wind it:
Clo. Bring them out; they are unsound.
Sat. [Bringing out Cloe and Daphnis.] By the fingers thus I wring ye,
Clo. Hold, Satyr; take this glass,
Sat. From this glass I throw a drop
Clo. Satyr, help to bring her in.
Sat. By Pan, I think she hath no sin,
[Carrying Amoret into the bower.
Sleep, that mortal sense deceives,
Crown thine eyes and ease thy pain;
Mayst thou soon be well again!
Clo. Satyr, bring the shepherd near;
Sat. Shepherd, come.
Daph. My thoughts are pure.
Sat. The better trial to endure.
Clo. In this flame his finger thrust,
[Satyr applies Daphniss finger to the taper.
Sat. Farewell, mortal: keep thee so.
We must try if you be chaste.
Heres a hand that quakes for fear;
Sure, she will not prove so clear.
Clo. Hold her finger to the flame;