Putting that aside, it was as if a wave of years gone by suddenly rose from those old cards and smacked me right in the face. Surely, others have stopped sending them as well. I actually had to pause as I wondered if anyone sends postcards anymore because it became clear to me that I haven’t sent a postcard in a very long time. Some were from family, others I sent myself. Many were from people I’ve lost contact with, others from friends I haven’t seen in a while.
Sends post haste full#
But, you thoughts, hide yourselves deep down in my soul, for here comes Clarence.Recently as I was going through our stuff, I discovered an album full of old postcards. If King Edward is as true as I am clever, false, and treacherous, then this very day Clarence will be imprisoned because of a prophecy that " G " will murder Edward's children. I have hatched plots and put dangerous plans into action, using prophecies made while drunk slander and stories about dreams in order to set my brother George, Duke of Clarence, against my other brother, the king, so that they hate each other. Therefore, since I cannot amuse myself by being a lover during these peaceful days, I am determined to become a villain. No joys help me pass the time, unless I want to see my own shadow in the sun and make speeches about my deformity. In such delicate times of peace, I have nothing to do. I was barely half-created when I came into the world, and left so lame and misshapen that dogs bark at me as I limp past them. I was born deformed, unfinished, and born prematurely. Nature has cheated me out of handsome features and proper proportions. I was badly made, and I lack the good looks to strut in front of passing girls. But as for me, I am not made for such games of love, or to admire myself in a mirror. And instead of charging on armored horses to frighten our opponents, we now dance in ladies' chambers to seductive songs on the lute. The grim, warlike expressions on our faces have smoothed. We've exchanged the sound of our battle trumpets for the sound of joyful greetings, and our death marches have become stately dances. Now we wear wreaths of victory on our foreheads, and we've hung up our armor as decoration. All the clouds that had descended over our family have now been banished and returned to the sea. Now the winter of our troubles has been transformed into glorious summer by the ascension of my brother, King Edward IV, son of the house of York.
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 mewed up About a prophecy which says that “G” Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determinèd to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking glass I, that am rudely stamped and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, 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. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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