The Sonnets

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

As to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimmʼd in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplacʼd,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgracʼd,

And strength by limping sway disabled

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,

And simple truth miscallʼd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

Tirʼd with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.