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.