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William Shakespeare - Sonnet 66: "Tir`d with all these, for restful death I cry..."
Work rating: Medium

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,
And maiden virtue 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 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.
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