Kent, in the commentaries Cæsar writ,

Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle :
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy. 22-iv. 7.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress, built by Nature for herself,
Against insection, 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:-

Dear for her reputation through the world. 17-ii. 1.

The natural bravery of your isle; which stands
As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in

With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters;

With sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats, But suck them up to the top-mast.

conquest

A kind of

Cæsar made here; but made not here his brag Of, came, and saw, and overcame: with shame (The first that ever touch'd him), he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping, (Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks: For joy whereof, The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point (0, giglota fortune!) to master Cæsar's sword, Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright, And Britons strut with courage.

31-iii. 1.

8.

England, its greatness.

That pale, that white-faced shore,

Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders,
Even till that England, hedged in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes,
Even till that utmost corner of the west
Salute thee for her king.

16-ii. i.

9.

The same.

I' the world's volume

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it;
In a great pool, a swan's nest.

England never did (nor never shall)

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,

31-iii. 4.

But when it first did help to wound itself.
Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.

16-v. 7.

It was always yet the trick of our English nation if they have a good thing, to make it too common.

13.

The English, courageous.

Our countrymen

19-i. 2.

Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæsar

b England is generally said to have been called Albion, from the white cliffs facing France, but it is more reasonable to suppose that Albion is derived from its aboriginal or Celtic name of Alwion, which signifies the country of Gwion, the deity most revered by the natives in the earliest times.

Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at: Their discipline

(Now mingled with their courages) will make known To their approvers, they are people, such That mend upon the world.

O noble English, that could entertain

31-ii. 4.

With half their forces the full pride of France;
And let another half stand laughing by,

All out of work, and cold for action!

And you, good yeomen,

20-i. 2.

Whose limbs were made in England, shew us here, That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt

not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game 's afoot;
Follow your spirit.

20-iii. 1.

1-i. 2.

Our fathers' minds are dead,

And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits;

Our yoke and sufferance shew us womanish. 29—i. 3.

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,

Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,

Insinuation, parley, and base truce,

To arms invasive?

Behold, destruction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet.

16-v. 1.

26-v. 3.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head;
Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones,
Nor to be seen; my crown is call'd, content;
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy.

Sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.

22.

Kings not to be tyrants.

We are no tyrant, but a Christian king;
Unto whose grace our passion is as subject,

23-iii. 1.

15-iv. 3.

As are our wretches, fetter'd in our prisons. 20—i. 2.

23.

King-becoming graces.

The king-becoming graces,

Are justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude.

Majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

The presence of a king engenders love
Amongst his subjects, and his loyal friends;
As it disanimates his enemies.

15-iv. 3.

18-i. 3.

21-iii. 1.

Never was monarch better fear'd and loved,

Than is your majesty; there's not, I think, a subject, That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness

Under the sweet shade of your government. 20-ii. 2.

Let not the world see fear, and blank distrust,
Govern the motion of a kingly eye.

16-v. 1.

L L

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;
And yet, incaged in so small a verge.

They do abuse the king that flatter him:
For flattery is the bellows blows up sin;
The thing the which is flatter'd, but a spark,

17-ii. 1.

To which that breath gives heat and stronger glowing; Whereas reproof, obedient and in order,

Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err.

33-i. 2.

Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle;
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best,
Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality:
And so the prince obscured his contemplation
Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,
Grew like the summer-grass, fastest by night,
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

O hard condition! twin-born with greatness,

Subjected to the breath of every fool,

Poems.

20-i. 1.

Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,