Sonnet 64 No More My Dear

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.