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 born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disablèd
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.

by William Shakespeare

Comments (3)

Always with complexity. But yet, his piece is always distinct like mine. Kudos!
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
Each word here hearkens from the past Each word here speaks of bitter winters blast Of England in Elizabethan cloak, and yet Of life, of death invited, e'en invoked Where all of consequence time ordered should be broke Save love alone for one, for whom these words he wrote