Sonnet 64: No More, My Dear

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.