On Cupid's bow how are my heart-strings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same!
When most I glory, then I feel most shame;
My best wits still their own disgrace invent:
My very ink turns straight to Stella's name;
And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame,
Avise them selves that they are vainly spent:
For though she pass all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall?
O let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,
And not in nature for best fruits unfit.
Scholar, saith Love, bend hitherward your wit.
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