Tir'd 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 gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, <br />And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, <br />And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, <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 />Tir'd 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/
