Richard   (Laurence Olivier Read Biography)

Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York. And all the clouds that lower'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are brows bound with victorious wreaths, our bruised arms hung up for monuments, our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim vised war has smoothed his wrinkled front and now instead or mounting barbed steeds to fright the souls of fearful adversaries he capers nimbly in a lady's chamber to the lascivious pleasing of a lute! But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks nor made to court an amorous looking glass, I that am rudely stamped and want love's majesty to strut before a wanton ambling nymph, I that am curtailed of fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling nature deformed! Unfinished! Sent before my time into breathing world scarce half made up and so lamely and unfashionable that dogs do bark at me as I halt by them.