Shakespeare Sonnet No. 66

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 unhappilly forsworn
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced
Nd 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 miscalled simplicity
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
As, to behold desert a beggar born