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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If you spot a mistake or have any comments or suggestions, please use the contact page to get in touch.
To be kept informed of developments, please subscribe to the email list.
If you would like to donate, you can do so here. Thank you!