Shakespeare's Sonnet 66

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 disabledAnd 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.

Tired of all these things, I cry out for the rest of death. I see worthy people born into poverty, and worthless people dressed in finery. I see the purest trust cruelly betrayed, and glittering honors shamefully given to the wrong people. I see innocent girls forced into prostitution, and true excellence unfairly disgraced. I see strength crippled by weak rulers, and art silenced by those in power. I see fools posing as experts and ruling over skilled people. I see plain truth dismissed as stupidity, and goodness held captive, forced to serve evil as its master.
Tired of all this, I would leave it all behind. But if I died, I would leave my love alone.