| When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
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| I all alone beweep my outcast state
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| And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
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| And look upon myself and curse my fate
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| Wishing me like one more rich in hope
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| Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d
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| Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope
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| With what I most enjoy contented least
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| Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising
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| Haply I think on thee, remember’d such wealth brings
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| That then I scorn to change my state with kings
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| Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
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| As, to behold desert a beggar born
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| And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity
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| And purest faith unhappily forsworn
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| And guilded honour shamefully misplaced
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| And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted
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| And right perfection wrongfully disgraced
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| And strength by limping sway disabled
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| And art made tongue-tied by authority
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| And folly doctor-like controlling skill
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| And simple truth miscall’d simplicity
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| And captive good attending captain ill
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| Tired with all these, from these would I be gone
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| Save that, to die |