 Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by the sun of York, and all the clouds that lured upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows with victorious wings, our bruised arms hung up for monuments, our stern allotments changed to merry meetings, our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Your envisaged war has smoothed his wrinkled front, and now, instead of mounting barren steves to fright the souls of fearful adversaries, he capers nymphs in a lady's bed chain, through the city's pleasing hallelujah. That I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, nor made to court an amorous-looking glass, I, that am rudely stacked, and want love's majesty to strut before the bonds that amble him, I, that am curtailed at this fair portion, cheated a feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time into this breathing world scarce half made up, and that so lame and unfashionable that dogs parked me as I hopped on. Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, have no delight to pass away this time, unless to spy my shadow in the sun and to scant on my own deformity, and therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair, well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, by drunken prophecies, lies, and dreams, to set my brother Clarence and the king in deadly hate against one another, and if King Edward be as true as just, true and just as I am suffering, and false, and treacherous, that day should Clarence, this day should Clarence closely be mew'd up about a prophecy which says that, gee, of Edward's heirs shall the murderer be. Divine thoughts, dive down to my soul, here Clarence comes.