'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.