Elena Maslova-Levin

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Home › Sonnets in colour › Sonnets 53-68 › Sonnet 66. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

Sonnet 66. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

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 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 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.

William Shakespeare

 Sonnet 66. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

September 2014

Trug das in uns  niedergeworfene Herz eines ganzen Geschlechts. An ein Zugvogelziel  trug er die Gruppe, das Bild unserer schwebenden Wandlung. 

Dragged That heart, a whole race, set down in us. Dragged To the goal of migratory birds the flock, the form of our Imminent change.