by megra » Sun Apr 22, 2007 1:44 am
I'm British, not one of those johnny come lately Germanic lot, the English and I don't own a flag.
The English are really a very strange lot. They bang on about some mythical Anatolian dragon slayer who had nothing whatsoever to do with England when far more significant is the fact that it is the the 443rd birthday of William Shakespeare, arguably the greatest poet and playwright in history, certainly the greatest working in the English language, a man whose work is revered throughout the world, but apparently not by the English.
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 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,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned 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 leased 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 siege
Of watery Neptune, is now 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.
How depressingly true.