Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour&#39;d upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.<br />Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang&#39;d to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.<br />Grim-visag&#39;d war hath smooth&#39;d his wrinkled front, And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady&#39;s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.<br />But I-that am not shap&#39;d for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass-<br />I-that am rudely stamp&#39;d, and want love&#39;s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph-I-that am curtail&#39;d of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform&#39;d, unfinish&#39;d, 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, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun