deare;
And thats his meaning, on my life it is.

_Asca_. Oh God, and shal my torments never cease?

_Ara_. Represse the fury of your troubled minde;
Walke here a while, your Lady you may finde.

_Io_. A Lady and a Boy, this hangs wel together,
Like snow in harvest, sun-shine and foule weather.

_Enter Eurymine singing_.

_Eu_. _Since[121] hope of helpe my froward starres denie,
Come, sweetest death, and end my miserie;
He left his countrie, I my shape have lost;
Deare is the love that hath so dearly cost_.

Yet can I boast, though _Phoebus_ were uniust,
This shift did serve to barre him from his lust.
But who are these alone? I cannot chuse
But blush for shame that anyone should see
_Eurymine_ in this disguise to bee.

_Asca_. It is (is't[122] not?) my love _Eurymine_.

_Eury_. Hark, some one hallows: gentlemen, adieu;
In this attire I dare not stay their view.
[_Exit_.

_Asca_. My love, my ioy, my life!
By eye, by face, by tongue it should be shee:
Oh I, it was my love; Ile after her,
And though she passe the eagle in her flight
Ile never rest till I have gain'd her sight.
[_Exit_.

_Ara_. Love carries him and so retains his minde
That he forgets how I am left behind.
Yet will I follow softly, as I can,
In hope to see the fortune of the man.
[_Exit_.

_Io_. Nay let them go, a Gods name, one by one;
With all my heart I am glad to be alone.
Here's old[123] transforming! would with all his art
He could transform this tree into a tart:
See then if I would flinch from hence or no;
But, for it is not so, I needs must go.
[_Exit_.

_Enter Silvio and Gemulo_.

_Sil_. Is it a bargaine _Gemulo_ or not?

_Ge_. Thou never knew'st me breake my word, I wot,
Nor will I now, betide me bale or blis.

_Sil_. Nor I breake mine: and here her cottage is,
Ile call her forth.

_Ge_. Will _Silvio_ be so rude?

_Sil_. Never shall we betwixt ourselves conclude
Our controversie, for we overweene.

_Ge_. Not I but thou; for though thou iet'st in greene,
As fresh as meadow in a morne of May,
And scorn'st the shepheard for he goes in gray.
But, Forrester, beleeve it as thy creede,
My mistresse mindes my person not my weede.

_Sil_. So 'twas I thought: because she tends thy sheepe
Thou thinkst in love of thee she