The Sonnets LXVI - Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
By William Shakespeare
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplacd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgracd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalld simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tird with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.