William Shakespeare - Sonnet 66

Lyrics

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 And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill 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