Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered 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 the 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.

Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven

Are you up to your destiny?