THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (66)

LXVI

    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold¹ desert a beggar born, And needy² nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded³ honour shamefully⁴ misplac'd, And maiden⁵ virtue⁶ rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly——doctor-like——controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity⁷, 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.