I cry out for restful death, tired with all of these things:
For example seeing worth itself born as as beggar,
And worthlessness itself dressed in expensive clothes,
And purest faith herself unhappy abandoned,
And golden honor shamefully put on the wrong person,
And virgin virtue herself rudely rumored to be a whore,
And correct perfection itself wrongfully insulted,
And strength itself disabled by crippled power,
And art itself made tongue-tied by authority,
And foolishness himself, like a doctor, over-powering skill,
And plain truth itself wrongfully labeled as simplicity,
And good itself made a prisoner and servant of evil.
Tired with all of this, I would like to leave them all behind,
Except that if I die, I leave my love alone.