The protestation a Sonnet.

NO more shall meads be deckt with flowers,
Nor sweetnesse dwell in rosie bowers:
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor Aprill violets paint the grove,
If I forsake my Celias love.

The fish shall in the Ocean burne,
And fountaines sweet shall bitter turne,
The humble oake no flood shall know,
When floods shall highest hills ore-flow.
Blacke Laethe shall oblivion leave,
If ere my Celia I deceive.

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus doves want wings to flie:
The Sun refuse to shew his light,
And day shall then be turn'd to night,
And in that night no starre appeare,
If once I leave my Celia de….

Love shall no more inhabite earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth,
Nor joy above in heaven dwell,
Nor paine torment poore soules in hell,
Grim death no more shall horrid prove,
If ere I leave bright Celias love.