I've become newly aware of this remarkable and, I think, timely sonnet, Shakespeare's no. 66
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 honor 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.
Shakespeare Sonnet 66
Shakespeare Sonnet 66
"Music's golden tongue flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor."
Re: Shakespeare Sonnet 66
I can relate to these feelings. There's something beautiful about their being well articulated.
When God can do what he will with a man, the man may do what he will with the world. ~George MacDonald
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