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/astrophel-and-stella-lxiv/
