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Tir'd 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 gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
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 miscalled 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.
The Sonnet 66
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
For man, the unexamined life, indeed, not worth living.
Socrates (470 BC - 399 BC)