|
| SONNET 66 |
| Tired 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 guilded honour shamefully misplaced, |
| And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, |
| And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, |
| 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: |
| Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, |
| Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. |
Sign up for the 
