_Clor_. Hold _Satyr_, take this Glass,
Sprinkle over all the place,
Purge the Air from lustfull breath,
To save this Shepherdess from death,
And stand you still whilst I do dress
Her wound for fear the pain encrease.

_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.