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| Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, | 1 |
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| As to behold desert a beggar born, |
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| And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, |
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| And purest faith unhappily forsworn, |
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| And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, | 5 |
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| And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, |
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| And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, |
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| And strength by limping sway disabled |
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| And art made tongue-tied by authority, |
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| And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill, | 10 |
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| And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, |
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| And captive good attending captain ill: |
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 Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, |
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| Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. |
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