CHALLENGE 80

Now is the inter of our discontent Made glorious summer by tis sun of York; 'nd all the clouds hat lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean bured Now are our brow bound with vicorious wreats; Our bruisd arms hug up for monuments; Our stern larums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful archs to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoth'd his wrinkled ront; And now, insead of mounting barbed steeds To fright te souls of farful adveraries, He cars nimbly in lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive trics, Nor mad to cout an amorous looking-glass;