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LXVI.
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 guilded 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.
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