William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry - Poem by William Shakespeare

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disablèd
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, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

Form: Anaphora

Comments about Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry by William Shakespeare

  • Joshua Adeyemi (4/3/2017 12:23:00 PM)

    Always with complexity. But yet, his piece is always distinct like mine. Kudos! (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
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  • Brian Jani (4/26/2014 8:07:00 AM)

    Awesome I like this poem, check mine out (Report) Reply

  • Egal Bohen (10/19/2007 6:32:00 PM)

    Each word here hearkens from the past
    Each word here speaks of bitter winters blast
    Of England in Elizabethan cloak, and yet
    Of life, of death invited, e'en invoked
    Where all of consequence time ordered should be broke
    Save love alone for one, for whom these words he wrote
    (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: strength, faith, truth, alone, death, love, sonnet

Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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