Richard III, your favorite? [ An amused huff. ] That makes sense.
"Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'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 changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures."
[ Wash doesn't act it out, it is memory for him, after all. He recites it evenly, calmly, with the right cadence -- there is a familiarity, a warm memory to all of this. He misses those days at school, despite the complications of his childhood. He misses going back home to his family after classes, if nothing else. ]
Should I go on? [ Raising an eyebrow. ] This one, I remember well.
no subject
Richard III, your favorite? [ An amused huff. ] That makes sense.
"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'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 changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures."
[ Wash doesn't act it out, it is memory for him, after all. He recites it evenly, calmly, with the right cadence -- there is a familiarity, a warm memory to all of this. He misses those days at school, despite the complications of his childhood. He misses going back home to his family after classes, if nothing else. ]
Should I go on? [ Raising an eyebrow. ] This one, I remember well.