You living powres enclosed in stately shrine
Of growing trees; you rurall Gods that wield
Your scepters here, if to your eares divine
A voice may come, which troubled soule doth yeld:
This vowe receave, this vowe ô Gods maintaine;
My virgin life no spotted thought shall staine.
Thou purest stone, whose purenesse doth present
My purest minde; whose temper hard doth showe
My tempred hart; by thee my promise sent
Unto my selfe let after-livers know.
No fancy mine, nor others wronge suspect
Make me, ô vertuous Shame, thy lawes neglect.
O Chastitie, the chiefe of heavenly lightes,
Which makst us most immortall shape to weare,
Holde thou my hart, establish thou my sprights:
To onely thee my constant course I beare.
Till spotlesse soule unto thy bosome flye,
Such life to leade, such death I vow to dye.