Richard III

I see thy smile; at times, May's warm, young sun, At times, December's cold and threat'ning sky; Thy woman's hand aplucking at thy sword, The lightning lurking in thy deep-set eye. Alone, thy face a stage whereon doth play Ambition, Hate, Lust, Murder; flitting out And in the gloomy wings of thy dark soul -- A fearsome and a most unholy rout! And yet withal a kingly look oft-times Conveys an air of high-born royalty That overshadows all thine awful crimes And stamps e'en them somewhat with majesty. Liar, Traitor, Murd'rer through all thy life -- Hero and King at Bosworth's fatal strife!