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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 chang'd to merry meetings, our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd 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.

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