Lewis monologue (Act 1) — The Saint's Tragedy

So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads-- These village greens, and forest-fretted hills, With dizzy castles crowned. Mine! Why that word Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt. What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride, Can these things fatten? Mass! I had forgot: I have a right to bark at trespassers. Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush, According to its destiny and nature (Which were they truly mine, my power could alter), Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me. Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat, If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds Into an age of sleep, 'twere something: and those men O'er whom that one word 'ownership' uprears me-- If I could make them lift a finger up But of their own free will, I'd own my seizin. But now--when if I sold them, life and limb, There's not a sow would litter one pig less Than when men called her mine.--Possession's naught; A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamed To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, Should mock, and cry, 'Vain man, not thine, but ours.'