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.
In plain English
The speaker is exhausted by the world as it is — corruption, hypocrisy, and injustice everywhere. He catalogues it: the poor ignored, the faithful betrayed, honour given to the wrong people, virginity exploited, perfection mocked, strength made powerless by weak rulers, artists silenced, idiots in charge of wise people, truth called naïveté, and goodness enslaved to evil.
He's so worn down that he begs for death as a relief. The world feels unbearable. But then he stops himself: he can't leave. There's one thing keeping him alive — his love. To die would be to abandon that person to face this broken world alone, and he can't do it.
