Spring and perish in a day.

_Clor._ _Satyr_, they wrong thee, that do term thee rude,
Though thou beest outward rough and tawny hu'd,
Thy manners are as gentle and as fair
As his, who brags himself, born only heir
To all Humanity: let me see the wound:
This Herb will stay the current being bound
Fast to the Orifice, and this restrain
Ulcers, and swellings, and such inward pain,
As the cold air hath forc'd into the sore:
This to draw out such putrifying gore
As inward falls.

_Satyr._ Heaven grant it may doe good.

_Clor._ Fairly wipe away the blood:
Hold him gently till I fling
Water of a vertuous spring
On his temples; turn him twice
To the Moon beams, pinch him thrice,
That the labouring soul may draw
From his great eclipse.

_Satyr._ I saw
His eye-lids moving.

_Clo._ Give him breath,
All the danger of cold death
Now is vanisht; with this Plaster,
And this unction, do I master
All the festred ill that may
Give him grief another day.

_Satyr._ See he gathers up his spright
And begins to hunt for light;
Now he gapes and breaths again:
How the blood runs to the vein,
That erst was empty!

_Alex._ O my heart,
My dearest, dearest _Cloe_, O the smart
Runs through my side: I feel some pointed thing
Pass through my Bowels, sharper than the sting
Of Scorpion.

Pan preserve me, what are you?
Do not hurt me, I am true
To my _Cloe_, though she flye,
And leave me to thy destiny.
There she stands, and will not lend
Her smooth white hand to help her friend:

But I am much mistaken, for that face
Bears more Austerity and modest grace,

More reproving and more awe
Than these eyes yet ever saw
In my Cloe. Oh my pain
Eagerly renews again.

Give me your help for his sake you love best.

_Clor._ Shepherd, thou canst not possibly take rest,
Till thou hast laid aside all hearts desires
Provoking thought that stir up lusty fires,
Commerce with wanton eyes, strong blood, and will
To execute, these must be purg'd, untill
The vein grow whiter; then repent, and pray
Great _Pan_ to keep you from the like decay,
And I shall undertake your cure with ease.
Till when this vertuous Plaster will displease
Your tender sides; give me your hand and rise:
Help him a little _Satyr_, for his thighs
Yet are feeble.

_Alex._ Sure I have lost much blood.

_Satyr._ 'Tis no matter, 'twas not good.
Mortal you must leave your wooing,
Though there be a joy in doing,
Yet it brings much grief behind it,