No More, My Deare, No More These Counsels Trie; O Giue My Passions Leaue To Run Their Race; Let Fortune Lay On Me Her Worst Disgrace; Let Folke Orecharg'D With Braine Against Me Crie; Let Clouds Bedimme My Face, Breake In Mine Eye; Let Me No Steps But Of Lost Labour Trace; Let All The Earth With Scorne Recount My Case, But Do Not Will Me From My Loue To Flie. I Do Not Enuie Aristotless Wit, Nor Do Aspire To C'Sars Bleeding Fame; Nor Ought Do Care Though Some Aboue Me Sit; Nor Hope, Nor Wish Another Course To Frame But That Which Once May Win Thy Cruell Hart: Thou Art My Wit, And Thou My Vertue Art.