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.