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.

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.

I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.