Shakespeare, William: LXVI. Sonnet

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,
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.

Scîrbit de tot, izbava mortii chem,
cel drept cerseste, lasul îsi arogã,
nevolnic, a magnificentii togã
si gîndul pur se stinge sub blestem.

Cinstirea-i împãrtitã grosolan,
e pîngãritã casta feciorie
perfectiunea-i frîntã de urgie
si-ngenunchiat, orice sublim elan.

A artei gurã trîndavu-o astupã,
nerodul, iscusintii-i porunceste
si adevãrul singur se smereste
robit miselului ce stã sã-l rupã.

Scîrbit de tot, m-as stinge fãrã glas,
dar dragostea, murind, cui sã o las?