SCENE 1.
London. A street
Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus
GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious
summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour\'d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with
victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern
alarums chang\'d to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful
measures. Grim-visag\'d war hath smooth\'d his wrinkled front, And now,
instead of 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 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 dissembling 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 spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair wellspoken
days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle
pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By
drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and
the King In deadly hate the one against the other; And if King Edward be
as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day should
Clarence closely be mew\'d up- About a prophecy which says that G Of
Edward\'s heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul.
Here Clarence comes.