| When Britain first, at Heaven’s command
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| Arose from out the azure main;
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| This was the charter of the land,
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| And guardian angels sang this strain:
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| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
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| «Britons never will be slaves.»
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| The nations, not so blest as thee,
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| Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall;
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| While thou shalt flourish great and free,
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| The dread and envy of them all.
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| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
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| «Britons never will be slaves.»
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| Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
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| More dreadful, from each foreign stroke;
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| As the loud blast that tears the skies,
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| Serves but to root thy native oak.
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| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
|
| «Britons never will be slaves.»
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| Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:
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| All their attempts to bend thee down,
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| Will but arouse thy generous flame;
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| But work their woe, and thy renown.
|
| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
|
| «Britons never will be slaves.»
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| To thee belongs the rural reign;
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| Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
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| All thine shall be the subject main,
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| And every shore it circles thine.
|
| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
|
| «Britons never will be slaves.»
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| The Muses, still with freedom found,
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| Shall to thy happy coast repair;
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| Blest Isle! |
| With matchless beauty crown’d,
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| And manly hearts to guard the fair.
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| «Rule, Britannia! |
| rule the waves:
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| «Britons never will be slaves.» |