William Shakespeare
Warwickshire
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Sonnet Lxvi

Rating: 4.8
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 guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And 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 miscall'd simplicity,
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COMMENTS
John William 16 July 2018
What is this poem about?
1 0 Reply
Denis Prosser 11 July 2017
Brilliant poem. I could read this again and again and not tire of it.
1 0 Reply
Denis Prosser 11 July 2017
One of repetitive nature of the poem enforces his message.
1 0 Reply
Brian Jani 26 April 2014
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
3 3 Reply

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