Sonnet 66: Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

1Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

2As to behold desert a beggar born,

3And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

4And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

5And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,

6And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

7And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,

8And strength by limping sway disabled

9And art made tongue-tied by authority,

10And folly — doctor-like — controlling skill,

11And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

12And captive good attending captain ill:

13 Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,

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