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;