Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of 'ston;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our stade
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with interception wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to picked meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged suck hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of pick six.