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7.

[A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye]

A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly playe
The Nimphs asleepe with rurall minstralsye,
Me thought I saw, vpon a summer's daye,
Take up a little Satyre in a wood,
All masterlesse forlorne as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his owne blood,
On mightye Pan he lastlie did bestowe him;
But with the god he long time had not been,
Ere he the shepherd and himselfe forgott,
And most ingratefull, ever stept between
Pan and all good befell the poore mans lott:
Whereat all good men griev'd, [and] strongly swore,
They never would be fosterfathers more.