William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

Sonnet LXVI.

“Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry”

TIR’D with all these, for restful death I cry  
As to behold desert a beggar born,  
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,  
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,  
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,    5
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,  
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,  
And strength by limping sway disabled,  
And art made tongue-tied by authority,  
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,   10
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,  
And captive good attending captain ill:  
  Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,  
  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.