Reading The Tragedy of Richard the Third — William Shakespeare

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NOw is the Winter of our Discontent,

Made glorious Summer by this Son of Yorke:

And all the clouds that lowr'd vpon our house

In the deepe bosome of the Ocean buried.

Now are our browes bound with Victorious Wreathes,

Our bruised armes hung vp for Monuments;

Our sterne Alarums chang'd to merry Meetings;

Our dreadfull Marches, to delightfull Measures.

Grim‑visag'd Warre, hath smooth'd his wrinkled Front:

And now, in stead of mounting Barbed Steeds,

To fright the Soules of fearfull Aduersaries,

He capers nimbly in a Ladies Chamber,

To the lasciuious pleasing of a Lute.

But I, that am not shap'd for sportiue trickes,

Nor made to court an amorous Looking‑glasse:

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