Astrophil
and Stella, Sonnet
64
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
O give my passions leave to run
their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst
disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharged 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.