For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

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.

The past is prologue.

My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.

To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.