Sheep on Nab Hill in the Lune Valley.
THIS throne of kings, this sceptr’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 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.
‘Pelting’ in this case is an adjective with a meaning similar to ‘paltry, mean’.
Précis
As John of Gaunt comes to his last hours, he laments the way his nephew, King Richard II, is cynically exploiting the country he loves for personal gain and ambition. For John, Richard is humiliating an honourable people deserving of respect, and squandering advantages, of history and of geography, with which few other Kings are blessed. (56 / 60 words)