SONETT 66 - William Shakespeare

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,

As to behold desert a beggar born,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And strenght by limping sway disabled,

And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,

And art made tongue - tied by authority,

And simple truth miscalled simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill,

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone

Save that to die, I leave my love alone.