No more my deere, no more these Counsels try,
O give my passions leave to runne their race:
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace.
Let Folke orecharg’d with braine against me cry,
Let Cloudes be dimme, my face breake in my eye,
Let me no steps but of lost labour try,
Let all the earth in scorne recount my race;
But doe not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envie Aristotles wit,
Nor do aspire to Cæsars bleeding fame:
Nor ought to care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor with another course to frame:
But that which once may winne thy cruell hart,
Thou art my wit; and thou my vertue art.