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.

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

I am a foe to tyrants, and my country's friend.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight