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first Scene.

The Satyre alone.
This same foolish Bee's but a Bee, and Bee's but a small thing,
Yet this buzzing Bee with a small mouth maketh a great wound:
But what's lesse than Loue, that lurketh in euery corner,
Euery smal smal nooke; and hides himself as a false-thiefe
Sometimes vnder an hayre, and sometymes vnder an ey-lidd?
Yet this least least Loue, when he smiteth, maketh a great-wound,
Great great mortall wound, great cureles wound in a louer.
My flesh's nought but a mark all ouerprickt with her arrowes,
My body naught but a wound, my bowells naught but a bleeding.
O Loue, nay not Loue, that loue vnlouely requiteth,
Loue was as ill cal'd Loue, as this prowd paltery Phillis
Was well cal'd Phillis; (disdainfull Phillis an ill is,
Ill to her owne-self first, and always ill to an other:)
As this Mountaine-byrd; Montanus daughter I should say,
Was well cal'd Phillis; since hill-borne Phillis a hill is:
Wylde waste hills and woods and mountaines serue for a harbor
Vnto the rau'nous brood of woolues, beares, slippery serpents;
And hillish Phillis makes her faire brest, as a lodging
For fowle pride, fell spite, and most implacable anger,
Woorse beasts, far more woorse, than woolues, beares, slippery serpents,
These with a pray are pleasd, but shee's not moou'd with a prayer.
If that I fetch her flowrs, fresh fragrant flowrs fro the forrest,
My fresh fragrant flowrs, ô spite, with a scorne shee reiecteth,
For cause her faire cheekes with fairer flowrs be adorned.
If that I bring in a dish queene-apples vnto my deare Queene,
Dish and queene-apples, ô griefe, with a mock shee renounceth,
For cause her bosome with fruite far sweeter aboundeth.

If that I range by the woods and fyelds, and gather her honny,
Honn' and honnyes combe, ô death, with a flout shee refuseth,
For cause her sweete mouth more sugered honny afordeth,
O then Phillis, alas, if my poore state can aford thee
Naught, but what thy self mayst haue more louely within thee,
Take myself for a guyft, ile geue myself to my Phillis,
And why should Phillis disdaine this guift that I giue her?
My face is not fowle, my lookes are not to be loathed,
Yesterday I beheld myself when I walkt by the seashore,
When seaes were calmed, when windes theyr rage had omytted
My sanguyne count'nance with moisture lyuely replenisht,
Bristled brest, braund armes, and shoulders stoordyly squared
Are all signes of strength, and marks of manlynes only,
And if Phillis doubt, let Phillis try what is in mee.
What should Phillis doo with a curld-pate paltery cockney?
What with a smooth-fac't foole, with a carpet squyre, with a mylksop
What with a pyping goose, with a whistling boy, with a mynstrell?
Gyrles indeede, and gyrles in shew, effœminat each way?
If perchaunce Phillis, (this chaunce may easyly happen)
Should encounter a Woolfe, or a fell shee Beare, or a wilde Boare,
Then farewell Mynyons, then bristled brests be the best men.
O but alas, Phillis dooth know right well, that I want not
Mans face or mans hart; but gold and syluer I haue not,
Gold and syluer I want, and this makes Phillis abhorr mee
Countrey learnes of towne to be bought, and euery Malkin
Lookes for a purse of sylk, or a ring, no lesse than a Lady.
Here is an age of gold indeede, gold only triumpheth,
Gold rul's and orerul's from a mylkmayd vnto an Empresse.
Thou, thou wicked wight that first taughtst mayds to be Marchants,
And mad'st gyrles sell loue; ô let thy graue be a dungeon
For foule sprytes and snakes; ô let thy damnable ashes
Feele both wynde and rayne, and bones ly all to be scattred
Here and there by the fyelds, bones bruysed of euery footeman,
Troaden of euery beast, accursed of all the beholders,
This wretch, noble loue did abase, when he made it a hireling,
Made it a slaue of gold, and made it a monsterus Hydra,
Monster of all monsters that land or water afordeth.
But what meane I to curse in vayne? since euery creature
Vseth such weapons, as nature gaue, to defend him?
Clawes to the greedy Lyons, and foaming tuske to the wilde Boare,

Winged eggs to a hart, and pleasing face to a woeman,
Why doe I not then deale according vnto my nature?
Why doe I not shew force, since nature fram'es me to forcing?
Ile take by violence and rape those ioyes fro the proud gyrle
Which are due to my loue, and Phillis stoutly denyeth.
When shee begins herself in woonted well to be washing,
(Silen shewd me the well, fayre well, well worthy a fayre lasse)
Ile rush out from a bush (where first ile lye as in ambush)
And take her napping, when I see occasion offred.
If that I once can rowle my hand in her hayre, let her hardly
Scratch and byte and whine, shee'le neuer scape fro my clutches,
Till, for a woorthy reueng, her blood, my blade be a bathing.
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