Act 4 — Scene I.[3469]

Peri. She is untrue, unconstant, and unkind; She’s gone, she’s gone! Blow high, thou northwest wind, And raise the sea to mountains; let the trees That dare oppose thy raging fury leese[3470] Their firm foundation; creep into the earth,5 And shake the world, as at the monstrous birth Of some new prodigy; whilst I constant stand, Holding this trusty boar-spear in my hand, And falling thus upon it. [Offers to fall on his spear.]

Amar. Stay thy dead-doing hand! Thou art too hot10 Against thyself. Believe me, comely swain, If that thou diest, not all the showers of rain The heavy clouds send down can wash away That foul unmanly guilt the world will lay Upon thee. Yet thy love untainted stands:15 Believe me, she is constant; not the sands Can be so hardly numb’red as she won. I do not trifle, shepherd; by the moon, And all those lesser lights our eyes do view, All that I told thee, Perigot, is true.20 Then, be a free man; put away despair And will to die; smooth gently up that fair Dejected forehead; be as when those eyes Took the first heat. Peri. Alas, he double dies That would believe, but cannot! ’T is not well You keep me thus from dying, here to dwell26 With many worse companions. But, oh, death! I am not yet enamour’d of this breath So much but I dare leave it; ’t is not pain In forcing of a wound, nor after-gain30 Of many days, can hold me from my will. ’T is not myself, but Amoret, bids kill. Amar. Stay but a little, little; but one hour; And if I do not show thee, through the power Of herbs and words I have, as dark as night,35 Myself turn’d to thy Amoret, in sight, Her very figure, and the robe she wears, With tawny buskins, and the hook she bears Of thine own carving, where your names are set, Wrought underneath with many a curious fret, The primrose-chaplet, tawdry-lace,[3471] and ring,41 Thou gav’st her for her singing, with each thing Else that she wears about her, let me feel The first fell stroke of that revenging steel! Peri. I am contented, if there be a hope,45 To give it entertainment for the scope Of one poor hour. Go; you shall find me next Under yon shady beech, even thus perplext, And thus believing. Amar. Bind, before I go, Thy soul by Pan unto me, not to do50 Harm or outrageous wrong upon thy life, Till my return. Peri. By Pan, and by the strife He had with Phoebus for the mastery, When golden Midas judg’d their minstrelsy, I will not!55 Exeunt [severally].