Shakespeare sonnet № 66
Oh, dear Will, I'm tir'd with all of these,
Like you were tir'd four centuries ago,
I see they bring a human to his knees,
I see they treat a human like a foe.
They trample behold desert into dirt,
And wisdom like before is not in honor,
And any scoundrel, any vile pervert
Can put innocent man into a corner.
Who is to service us - that lives like lord,
That ruins us to whom for aid we plea,
They cast away a talent into ward,
And genius - so better not to be.
And spongers jubilate in friendly way
When the unjust verdict strikes with dismay.