From Richard II - William Shakespeare
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other eden demi-Paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war:
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Feared by their breed and famous by the birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home-
For Christian service, and true chivalry-
As is the sepulchre, in stubborn Jewery,
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation throughout 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.