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William Shakespeare (1564–1616).  The Oxford Shakespeare: Poems.  1914.

Sonnet LXVI.

“Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry”


TIR’D with all these, for restful death I cry 
As to behold desert a beggar born, 
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, 
And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,         5
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
And strength by limping sway disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,  10
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, 
And captive good attending captain ill: 
  Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone, 
  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 


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