O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

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.

To whom God will, there be the victory.

For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.