 | The Careles Shepherdess |  |
Scen. 4.
Enter Satyre Solus.Sat.
The paine of my late wound hath rob'd my spirits
Of strength and use: the blood that won't to dance
Through the concaves of my veines, now moves
With a dull beating in my quiet pulses,
And I begin to faint. Thou gentle earth
Allow me what sweet comfort rest affords,
And let thy verdant bosome be my bed.
He lyes down.
| The Careles Shepherdess | |