Classic Poem

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;
I willing run, yet while I run, repent;
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 themselves 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.’