Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this son of York,And all the clouds that loured upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments,Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front;And now, instead of mounting barbèd steedsTo fright the souls of fearful adversaries,He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamberTo the lascivious pleasing of a lute.But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;I, that am rudely stamped and want love’s majestyTo strut before a wanton ambling nymph;I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,Deformed, unfinished, sent before my timeInto this breathing world, scarce half made up,And that so lamely and unfashionableThat dogs bark at me as I halt by them—Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,Have no delight to pass away the time,Unless to see my shadow in the sunAnd descant on mine own deformity.
