Sonnet 63

NO more my deere, no more these Counsels try,
O giue my passions leaue to runne their race:
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.
Let Folke orechargde with braine against me cry,
Let Cloudes be dimme, my fate bereaues myne eyes,
Let me no steps but of lost labour try,
Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;
But doe not will me from my loue to fly.
I doe not enuye Aristotles wit,
Nor doe aspire to Caesars bleeding fame:
Nor ought to care though some aboue me sit;
Nor hope nor wish an other course to frame:
But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,
Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.