No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; O give my passions leave to run their race. Let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace, Let folk o'ercharged 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE [JUNE 1, 1813] by THOMAS TRACY BOUVE THE FIGHTING RACE [FEBRUARY 16, 1898] by JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE ON DONNE'S POETRY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE MAD GARDENER'S SONG by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON THE KISS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A SUPPLEMENT OF AN IMPERFECT COPY OF VERSES OF MR. WILL. SHAKESPEARE'S by JOHN SUCKLING COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS [AUGUST 1802] by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO A YOUNG LADY; WHO ... REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN COUNTRY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |