LXVI.
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 bo
gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
July 26, 2008 at 2:14 am |
[...] stands but for his scythe to mow” (60); “needy nothing trimm’d in jollity” (66); “Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of [...]