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LXVI 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 gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, 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, And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. --William Shakespeare
All The Best,
William Einstein Shakespeare :)
CXX That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken, As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time; And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. O! that our night of woe might have remember'd My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee; Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. --William Shakespeare