BUCKINGHAM: Then know, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The scepter'd office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemished stock: Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country's good, This noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shoulder'd in the swallowing gulf Of blind forgetfulness and dark oblivion. Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land, Not as protector, steward, substitute, Or lowly factor for another's gain; But as successively from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In this just suit come I to move your grace.