Зову я

Tird with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplacd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgracd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tonguetied by authority, And folly, doctorlike, controlling skill, And simple truth miscalld 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.