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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lower’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-visag’d war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed 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 shap’d for sportive tricks Nor made to court an amourous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton, ambling nymph I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion Cheated of feature by dissembling nature Deform’d, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them Why, love forswore me