People often quote William Shakespeare's 'Richard II' when romanticising England, for very good reason: "This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for her self Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in a 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." It is an incredibly beautiful piece of literature and it is here where the quotation usually stops, however the praise doesn't: "This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Feared by their breed and famous for their birth, Renownèd 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, blessèd Mary's son." This praise unfortunately doesn't last, when it soon becomes a lament. It is here where I find to be the most sobering and prophetic part of the text: "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."