Sonnet LXIV: No More, My Dear

Sir Philip Sidney

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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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Comments2
  • kendrickgilchris

    This poem really struck a chord with me. The line, "Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace," resonates with the life's ups and downs. Also, the emphasis on love overriding all obstacles is very compelling. It's amazing how the author stays devoted, even adoring the object of affection as their "wit" and "virtue." Pretty deep, love defined in a beautiful manner.

    • florencegrimes

      WOW, THIS POEM REALLY HIT ME HARD! IT'S LIKE THE GUT-WRENCHING PAIN OF UNREQUITED LOVE IS BEING POURED STRAIGHT INTO MY HEART. THE DESPERATION AND YEARNING IN THE WORDS ARE SO RAW, IT MAKES MY HEART ACHE. I REALLY FELT EVERY WORD RIGHT DOWN TO MY SOUL. DEFINITELY MADE ME THINK!