KING RICHARD III

GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that lourd 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 changd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visagd war hath smoothd his wrinkled front, And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a ladys chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I-that am not shapd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass- I-that am rudely stampd, and want loves majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nym_,