Karl's Lament

[IcemanCometh]

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of Malone
All the clouds that were upon our house
In the deep bosom of ocean buried.
Now we our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung for monuments,
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd War hath smooth'd this wrinkled front;
And now, in stead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a chamber
To a lascivious lute.
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissenbling nature,
Deform'd unfinish'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 see my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair well-spoken days.
I am determined to prove a villian
And hate the idle pleasures of these days


Cowards die many times before their deaths




When beggars die there are no comets seen

[Jimcs50]

*Shakespeare rolling over in his grave*


RichardIII > Malone