Astrophel and Stella: LXIV

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.