Now is the winter of our discontent
made miserable summer by the sun unhampered by clouded sky
nor air cooled by northern breeze.
That we might in the deep bosom of the ocean bury
our remembrance of such torrid days.
Torrid days, horrid days about which I vowed
never to complain, for winter’s blast is my bane
I hate cold more than I despise the heat.
I lied; I carp, I snivel and complain. I am
no better than all my like-afflicted kin.