No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; <br />Oh, give my passions leave to run their race; <br />Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; <br />Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry; <br />Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; <br />Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; <br />Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, <br />But do not will me from my love to fly. <br />I do not envy Aristotle's wit, <br />Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; <br />Nor aught do care though some above me sit; <br />Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, <br />But that which once may win thy cruel heart: <br />Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxiv-no-more-my-dear/
