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