Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, for Restful Death I Cry

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As to behold desert a beggar borne,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily foresworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpetted,
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 miscalled 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.

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