| 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. |