Now is the winter of our discontent.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York.

Suspicion, Discontent, and Strife, Come in for Dowrie with a Wife.

A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude.