This royal throne of kings, this sce pter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, dem i-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
Th is happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat de fensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
T his blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary¹s Son,
This land of such d ear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation throug h the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
~William Shakespeare
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, dem i-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
Th is happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat de fensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
T his blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary¹s Son,
This land of such d ear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation throug h the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
~William Shakespeare