Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of Yorks; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barded steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
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