Her very figure, and the Robe she wears,
With tawny Buskins, and the hook she bears
Of thine own Carving, where your names are set,
Wrought underneath with many a curious fret,
The _Prim-Rose_ Chaplet, taudry-lace and Ring,
Thou gavest her for her singing, with each thing
Else that she wears about her, let me feel
The first fell stroke of that Revenging steel.

_Per._ I am contented, if there be a hope
To give it entertainment, for the scope
Of one poor hour; goe, you shall find me next
Under yon shady Beech, even thus perplext,
And thus believing.

_Ama._ Bind before I goe,
Thy soul by _Pan_ unto me, not to doe
Harm or outragious wrong upon thy life,
Till my return.

_Per._ By _Pan_, and by the strife
He had with _Phoebus_ for the Mastery,
When Golden _Midas_ judg'd their _Minstrelcy_,
I will not. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Satyr, _with_ Alexis, _hurt._

_Satyr._ Softly gliding as I goe,
With this burthen full of woe,
Through still silence of the night,