The time of unhappiness is past.

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.



Richard The Third Act 1,scene 1,1-4 by W Shakespeare

The true meaning of this script by Speares talking about the time of unhappiness is in the past, no point dwelling over it.

Sometimes true literature is the genuine way of life itself.