Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of
York; 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,