_Clor_. In this flame his finger thrust,
Which will burn him if he lust;
But if not, away will turn,
As loth unspotted flesh to burn:
See, it gives back, let him go,
Farewel mortal, keep thee so.

_Sat_. Stay fair _Nymph_, flye not so fast,
We must try if you be chaste:
Here's a hand that quakes for fear,
Sure she will not prove so clear.

_Clor._ Hold her finger to the flame,
That will yield her praise or shame.

_Sat._ To her doom she dares not stand,
But plucks away her tender hand,
And the Taper darting sends
His hot beams at her fingers ends:
O thou art foul within, and hast
A mind, if nothing else, unchaste.

_Alex._ Is not that _Cloe?_ 'tis my Love, 'tis she!
_Cloe_, fair _Cloe_.

_Clo._ My Alexis.

_Alex._ He.