Sonnet 66, by NY Shakespeare Exchange

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
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.

Sonnet 66, from The Sonnet Project, by the New York Shakespeare Exchange.

I love the raw context of these sonnets, the ambient sounds and sights of people making for a relevant Shakespeare.  I see that love has the authority, the power, and the shamelessness to dominate, control and even ridicule a lover.  On the face of it, Michael Shattner contemplates suicide.  Maybe so.  But it may also be that romanticized longing for death as relief from an unrelenting, mean-spirited love.