Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this son of York;And all the clouds that lour’d upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,Our bruised arms hung up
I live here. I work here. I know here.
Now is the winter of our discontent, Made glorious summer by this son of York;And all the clouds that lour’d upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,Our bruised arms hung up