[Glou.] Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'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, in stead 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 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 villain
And Hate the idle pleasures of these days.

I stood in the flag-decked cheering crowd
Where all but I were gay,
And gazing on their ecstacy,
My heart shrank in dismay.

For theirs was the joy of the "little folk"
The cruel glee of the weak,
Who, banded together, have slain the strong
Which none alone dared seek.

The Bosch we know was a hideous beast
Beyond our era's ban,
But soldiers still must honor the Hun
As a mighty fighting man.

The vice he had was strong and real
Of virtue he had none,
Yet he fought the world remorselessly
And very nearly won...

And looking forward I could see
Like a festering sewer;
Full of the fecal Pacifists
Which peace makes us endure....

None of the bold and blatant sin
The disregard of pain,
The glorious deeds of sacrefice
which follow in wars train.

Instead of these the little lives
Will blossom as before,
Pale bloom of creatures all too weak
To hear the light of war.

While we whose spirits wider range
Can grasp the joys of strife,
Will moulder in the virtuous vice
Of futile peaceful life.

We can but hope that e're we drown
'Neath treacle floods of grace,
The tuneless horns of mighty, Mars
Once more shall rouse the Race

When such times come, Oh! God of War
Grant that we pass midst strife,
Knowing once more the whitehot joy
Of taking human life.

Then pass in peace, blood-glutted Bosch
And when we too shall fall,
We'll clasp in yours our gory hands
In High Valhallas' Hall.

George Smith Patton, Jr. (1885-1945)