No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
 Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
 Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
 Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
 Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
 Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
 Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
 But do not will me from my love to fly.
 I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
 Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
 Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
 Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
 But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
 Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.