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LXVI



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 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:

  Tir\'d with all these, from these would I be gone,

  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

 	--William Shakespeare

CXXI



\'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem\'d,

When not to be receives reproach of being;

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem\'d

Not by our feeling, but by others\' seeing:

For why should others\' false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood?

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own:

I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;

By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown;

  Unless this general evil they maintain,

  All men are bad and in their badness reign.

 	--William Shakespeare

So the lover must struggle for words.
T. S. Eliot