William Shakespeare: Sonnet 66 (original and modern texts)

Tir'd 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.

Because I’m tired of all of these things, I cry out for restful death: deserving people destined to be beggars, and worthless people dressed up in fancy clothes, and sacred vows broken, and rewards and honors shamefully bestowed on the wrong people, and chaste women turned into whores, and people perfectly in the right disgraced with slander, and the strong disabled by authorities who are weak, and artists silenced by authority, and fools controlling the wise like a doctor does the sick, and simple truth mistaken for simplemindedness, and good enslaved by evil. I’m tired of all these things and would like to escape them, except that if I die I’ll be leaving the person I love all alone.