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 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 be gone,

Save that, to die,

I leave my love alone.