Sonnet 66

Tired 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 misplaced,

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,

And simple truth miscall’d 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.

Tired of all this, for the peace of death

I cry. To see a man born into poverty,

And the needy given no wreath,

And faith dismissed casually,

And honor awarded shame,

And a giver surpassed by a whore,

And an able body made lame,

And a virtuoso replaced by a bore,

And art shut down by authority,

And folly, become a doctor, commanding skill,

And basic truth called naïveté,

And health judged illness by the ill—

Tired of all this, from this I would be gone,

Except that if I killed myself, I’d leave you all alone.