On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent, <br />That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same? <br />When most I glory, then I feel most shame: <br />I willing run, yet while I run, repent. <br /> <br />My best wits still their own disgrace invent: <br />My very ink turns straight to Stella's name; <br />And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame, <br />Avise themselves that they are vainly spent. <br /> <br />For though she pass all things, yet what is all <br />That unto me, who fare like him that both <br />Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall? <br /> <br />Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth, <br />And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit: <br />"Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit."<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xix-on-cupid-s-bow/
