Shakespeare's "Now is the Winter"

Now is the winter of our unhappiness Made wulderful summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that frown'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the sea buried. Now are our brows bound with winsome wreaths; Our bruised weapons hung up for thinktokens; Our stern wakers wended to merry meetings, Our dreadful trods to gleeful means. Grim-seen war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of climbing barded steeds To fright the ferrows of fearful fiends, He jumps nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lewdful queming of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for gamish tricks, Nor made to woo a lovely looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's awesomeness To strut before a wanton moseying maiden; I, that am shortailed of this fair deeming, Cheated of mark by unbuilding whatness, Misshapen, unfulfilled, sent before my time Into this breathing world, barely half made up, And that so lamely and untrendy That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; Why, I, in this weak piping time of frith, Have no queme to kill time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And sway on mine own misshapenness: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am minded to show a fiend And hate the idle glees of these days. Plots have I laid, beginnings freechenful, By drunken soothsayings, quotes and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and fair As I am crafty, false and cheatful, This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up, About a soothsaying, which says that 'G' Of Edward's erve the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here.

Gr8asb8 22:14, September 13, 2010 (UTC)