…from the quills of the dead white poet
William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Tired 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 honour shamefully displaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
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:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
This could also go as “Nothing New Under the Sun (Almost)”.