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Philip Sidney - Sonnet 64: No More, My Dear
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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.
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