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 labor 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.