111    [from Sonnets]

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 unhappily forsworne,

5          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,

10       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.