Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, <br />As to behold desert a beggar born, <br />And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, <br />And purest faith unhappily forsworn, <br />And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, <br />And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, <br />And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, <br />And strength by limping sway disablèd <br />And art made tongue-tied by authority, <br />And folly doctor-like controlling skill, <br />And simple truth miscalled 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-66-tired-with-all-these-for-restful-death/
