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 happy lands: This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd for their breed and famous for their birth, Renown'd for their deeds, as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son; This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out (I die pronouncing it) Like to a tenement or pelting farm. England bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious surge Of wat'ry Neptune, is bound in with shame, With inky-blots and rotten parchment bonds. That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. The character of Bolingbroke, afterwards Henry IV, is drawn with a masterly hand:--patient for occasion, and then steadily availing himself of it, seeing his advantage afar off, but only seizing on it when he has it within his reach, humble, crafty, bold, and aspiring, encroaching by regular but slow degrees, building power on opinion, and cementing opinion by power. His disposition is first unfolded by Richard himself, who however is too self-willed and secure to make a proper use of his knowledge. Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green, Observed his courtship of the common people; How he did seem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtesy, What reverence he did throw away on slaves; Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles, And patient under-bearing of his fortune, As 'twere to banish their affections with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With thanks my countrymen, my loving friends; As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope. Afterwards, he gives his own character to Percy, in these words: I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy, As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends; And as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense.