The Faithful Shepherdess. Beaumont Francis

Poets stile the Mother of desire,

      Infusing into every gentle brest

      A soul of greater price, and far more blest

      Than that quick power, which gives a difference,

      'Twixt man and creatures of a lower sense.

      Clor. Shepherd, how cam'st thou hither to this place?

      No way is troden, all the verdant grass

      The spring shot up, stands yet unbruised here

      Of any foot, only the dapled Deer

      Far from the feared sound of crooked horn

      Dwels in this fastness.

      Th. Chaster than the morn,

      I have not wandred, or by strong illusion

      Into this vertuous place have made intrusion:

      But hither am I come (believe me fair)

      To seek you out, of whose great good the air

      Is full, and strongly labours, whilst the sound

      Breaks against Heaven, and drives into a stound

      The amazed Shepherd, that such vertue can

      Be resident in lesser than a man.

      Clor. If any art I have, or hidden skill

      May cure thee of disease or festred ill,

      Whose grief or greenness to anothers eye

      May seem impossible of remedy,

      I dare yet undertake it.

      The. 'Tis no pain

      I suffer through disease, no beating vein

      Conveyes infection dangerous to the heart,

      No part impostum'd to be cur'd by Art,

      This body holds; and yet a feller grief

      Than ever skilfull hand did give relief

      Dwells on my soul, and may be heal'd by you,

      Fair beauteous Virgin.

      Clor. Then Shepherd, let me sue

      To know thy grief; that man yet never knew

      The way to health, that durst not shew his sore.

      Then. Then fairest, know, I love you.

      C[l]or. Swain, no more,

      Thou hast abus'd the strictness of this place,

      And offred Sacrilegious foul disgrace

      To the sweet rest of these interred bones,

      For fear of whose ascending, fly at once,

      Thou and thy idle passions, that the sight

      Of death and speedy vengeance may not fright

      Thy very soul with horror.

      Then. Let me not (Thou all perfection) merit such a blot

      For my true zealous faith.

      Clor. Dar'st thou abide

      To see this holy Earth at once divide

      And give her body up? for sure it will,

      If thou pursu'st with wanton flames to fill

      This hallowed place; therefore repent and goe,

      Whilst I with praise appease his Ghost below,

      That else would tell thee what it were to be

      A rival in that vertuous love that he

      Imbraces yet.

      Then. 'Tis not the white or red

      Inhabits in your cheek that thus can wed

      My mind to adoration; nor your eye,

      Though it be full and fair, your forehead high,

      And smooth as Pelops shoulder; not the smile

      Lies watching in those dimples to beguile

      The easie soul, your hands and fingers long

      With veins inamel'd richly, nor your tongue,

      Though it spoke sweeter than Arions Harp,

      Your hair wove into many a curious warp,

      Able in endless errour to infold

      The wandring soul, nor the true perfect mould

      Of all your body, which as pure doth show

      In Maiden whiteness as the Alpsian snow.

      All these, were but your constancie away,

      Would please me less than a black stormy day

      The wretched Seaman toyling through the deep.

      But whilst this honour'd strictness you dare keep,

      Though all the plagues that e're begotten were

      In the great womb of air, were setled here,

      In opposition, I would, like the tree,

      Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free

      Even in the arm of danger.

      Clor. Wouldst thou have

      Me raise again (fond man) from silent grave,

      Those sparks that long agoe were buried here,

      With my dead friends cold ashes?

      Then. Dearest dear,

      I dare not ask it, nor you must not grant;

      Stand strongly to your vow, and do not faint:

      Remember how he lov'd ye, and be still

      The same Opinion speaks ye; let not will,

      And that great god of women, appetite,

      Set up your blood again; do not invite

      Desire and fancie from their long exile,

      To set them once more in a pleasing smile:

      Be like a rock made firmly up 'gainst all

      The power of angry Heaven, or the strong fall

      Of Neptunes battery; if ye yield, I die

      To all affection; 'tis that loyaltie

      Ye tie unto this grave I so admire;

      And yet there's something else I would desire,

      If you would hear me, but withall deny.

      O Pan, what an uncertain destiny

      Hangs over all my hopes! I will retire,

      For if I longer stay, this double fire

      Will lick my life up.

      Clor. Doe, let time wear out

      What Art and Nature cannot bring about.

      Then. Farewel thou soul of vertue, and be blest

      For ever, whilst that here I wretched rest

      Thus to my self; yet grant me leave to dwell

      In kenning of this Arbor; yon same dell

      O'retopt with morning Cypress and sad Yew

      Shall be my Cabin, where I'le early rew,

      Before the Sun hath kist this dew away,

      The hard uncertain chance which Fate doth lay

      Upon this head.

      Clor. The gods give quick release

      And happy cure unto thy hard disease. [Exeunt.

      Enter Sullen Shepherd.

      Sullen. I do