Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, <br /> As, to behold desert a beggar born, <br /> And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, <br /> And purest faith unhappily forsworn, <br /> And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, <br /> And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, <br /> And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, <br /> And strength by limping sway disabled, <br /> And art made tongue-tied by authority, <br /> And folly doctor-like controlling skill, <br /> And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, <br /> And captive good attending captain ill: <br /> Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, <br /> Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxvi/
