Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 62

Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine,
With rage of love, I called my love unkind;
She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
      I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine,
That love she did, but loved a love not blind,
Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:
      And therefore by her love’s authority,
      Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly,
And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore.
      Alas, if this the only metal be
      Of Love, new-coined to help my beggary,
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.