Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As to behold desert1 a beggar born,
And needy nothing2 trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily3 forsworn,
And gilded honour4 shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway5 disabld6,
And art made tongue-tied7 by authority,
And folly (doctor-like)8 controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity9,
And captive good attending captain10 ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Sonnet 66 by William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
© Copyright: Юлия Гайд, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125110605824
Свидетельство о публикации №125110605824
Рецензии