To win me, but this swain, and yet confess
I have been woo'd by many with no less
Soul of affection, and have often had
Rings, Belts, and Cracknels sent me from the lad
That feeds his flocks down westward; Lambs and Doves
By young _Alexis; Daphnis_ sent me gloves,
All which I gave to thee: nor these, nor they
That sent them did I smile on, or e're lay
Up to my after-memory. But why
Do I resolve to grieve, and not to dye?
Happy had been the stroke thou gav'st, if home;
By this time had I found a quiet room
Where every slave is free, and every brest
That living breeds new care, now lies at rest,
And thither will poor _Amoret_.

_Per_. Thou must.
Was ever any man so loth to trust
His eyes as I? or was there ever yet
Any so like as this to _Amoret_?
For whose dear sake, I promise if there be
A living soul within thee, thus to free
Thy body from it. [_He hurts her again_.

_Amo_. So, this work hath end:
Farewel and live, be constant to thy friend
That loves thee next.

_Enter_ Satyr, Perigot _runs off_.