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Actus Secundus.
Scena Prima.
Satyr solus.
SMall is the Bee; but yet with his small sting
Does greater mischiefe, then a greater thing.
But what of all things can be lesse then Loue,
That through so narrow passages can pierce,
And in so narrow roome lye hid? sometime
Vnder the shaddow of an eye-lids fault,
Now in the small curle of a shining tresse,
Now in the little pitts which forme sweet smiles
In an inamo'ring checke; yet makes so deepe,
So deadly and immedicable wounds.
Ay me my brest is all one bleeding wound;
A thousand armed darts alas are lodg'd
By that fell tyrant Loue in Siluia's eyes;
Cruell Loue, cruell Siluia, sauadger
Then the wilde desarts; O how well thy name
Sutes with thy nature (Siluan as thou art)
The woods vnder their greene roofes hide the Snake,
The Beare, the Lyon; and thou in thy brest
Hydest disdaine, hate, and impietie,
More balefull then the Lion, Beare, or Snake;
For they will someway be reclaim'de; thou neither
With prayers or gifts; Alas when I present thee
Fresh floures, thou frowardly refusest them;