GloucesterNow is the winter of our² discontent
Made glorious³ summer by this son⁴ of York,⁵
And all the clouds that loured⁶ upon our house⁷
In⁸ the deep bosom of the ocean buried.⁹
Now are our brows bound¹⁰ with victorious wreaths,
Our bruisèd arms¹¹ hung up for monuments,¹²
Our stern alarums¹³ changed to merry meetings,¹⁴
Our dreadful marches¹⁵ to delightful measures.¹⁶
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front,¹⁷
And now, instead of mounting barbèd¹⁸ steeds
To fright the souls of fearful¹⁹ adversaries,
He capers²⁰ nimbly in a lady’s chamber²¹
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am...