Sonnet 66

Tyr'd with all these for restfull death I cry

As to behold desert a begger borne,

And needie Nothing trimd in jollitie,

And purest faith unhapply forsworne,

And gilded honor shamefully misplast,

And maiden vertue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And arte made tung-tide by authoritie,

And Folly (Doctor-like) controuling skill,

And simple-Truth miscalde Simplicitie,

And captive-good attending Captaine ill.

Tyr'd with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that to dye, I leave my love alone.