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.

By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

My only love sprung from my only hate.

I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.