Now is the winter of our ungladdeningMade heavenly summer by this sun of York;And all the clouds that lowered upon our houseAre now in the deep bosom of the waters buried.Now are our brows bound with winning wreaths;Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;Our stern war-cries changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful trods to winsome twirlings.Grim visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;And now, instead of mounting barbed steedsTo fright the ferrows of fearful fiends,He skips nimbly in a lady's chamberTo the lewdful queming of a lute.But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's awesomenessTo strut before a wanton moseying maiden;I, that am shortailed of this fair deeming,Cheated of mark by unbuilding wh