text: 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.