Knelt at our proud lords' feet; we have too long Obey'd their orders, bow'd to their caprices, Sweated for them the wearying summer's day, Wasted for them the wages of our toil,

Fought for them, conquer'd for them, bled for them, Still to be trampled on, and still despised!

But we have broke our chains.

To Maidstone, to deliver good John Ball,
Our friend, our shepherd.

Tyler.

Will ye

[Mob increases.

Friends and Countrymen,

then rise to save an honest man

From the fierce clutches of the bloody law?

Oh, do not call to mind my private wrongs,

[me,

That the state drain'd my hard-earn'd pittance from
That, of his office proud, the foul Collector
Durst with lewd hand seize on my darling child,
Insult her maiden modesty, and force

A father's hand to vengeance; heed not this;
Think not, my countrymen, on private wrongs,
Remember what yourselves have long endured;
Think of the insults, wrongs, and contumelies,
Ye bear from your proud lords—that your hard toil
Manures their fertile fields-you plough the earth,
You sow the corn, you reap the ripen'd harvest,—
They riot on the produce !-that, like beasts,
They sell you with their land, claim all the fruits
Which the kindly earth produces, as their own,
The privilege, forsooth of noble birth!

On, on to freedom; feel but your own strength, Be but resolved, and these destructive tyrants Shall shrink before your vengeance.

Hob.

On to London,—

-the court trembles,—

The tidings fly before us-
Liberty-Vengeance-Justice.

ACT II.

SCENE I. Blackheath.

TYLER, HOB, &C.

SONG.

• When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?'

Wretched is the infant's lot,
Born within the straw-roof'd cot;
Be he generous, wise, or brave,
He must only be a slave.
Long, long labour, little rest,
Still to toil to be oppress'd;
Drain'd by taxes of his store,
Punish'd next for being poor:
This is the poor wretch's lot,
Born within the straw-roof'd cot.

While the peasant works, to sleep,
What the peasant sows,

VOL. II.

Ꭰ

to reap,

On the couch of ease to lie,
Rioting in revelry;

Be he villain, be he fool,

Still to hold despotic rule,

Trampling on his slaves with scorn!
This is to be nobly born.

When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?'

Jack Straw. The mob are up in London-the proud courtiers

Begin to tremble.

Tom Miller.

Aye, aye, 'tis time to tremble: Who'll plough their fields, who'll do their drudgery

now,

And work like horses to give them the harvest?

Jack Straw. I only wonder we lay quiet so long. We had always the same strength; and we deserved The ills we met with for not using it.

Hob. Why do we fear those animals call'd lords ? What is there in the name to frighten us? Is not my arm as mighty as a Baron's?

Enter PIERS and JOHN BALL.

Piers (to Tyler). Have I done well, my father? -I remember'd

This good man lay in prison.

Tyler.

My dear child,

Most well; the people rise for liberty,

And their first deed should be to break the chains That bind the virtuous :--Oh, thou honest priest, How much hast thou endured!

John Ball.

Why, aye, my friend! These squalid rags bespeak what I have suffer'd. I was reviled, insulted, left to languish

In a damp dungeon;

but I bore it cheerily

My heart was glad for I had done my duty.
I pitied my oppressors, and I sorrow'd

For the poor men of England.

Tyler.

They have felt

Their strength: look round this heath; 'tis throng'd

with men

Ardent for freedom: mighty is the event

That waits their fortune.

John Ball.

I would fain address them.

Tyler. Do so, my friend, and preach to them

their duty.

Remind them of their long-withholden rights.

What ho! there; silence!

Piers.

Silence, there, my friends,

Aye, aye, hear him ;

This good man would address you.

Hob.

He is no mealy-mouth'd court-orator,

To flatter vice, and pamper lordly pride.

John Ball. Friends, brethren! for ye are my brethren all;

Englishmen, met in arms to advocate

The cause of freedom, hear me; pause awhile
In the career of vengeance !-It is true

I am a priest, but, as these rags may speak,
Not one who riots in the poor man's spoil,
Or trades with his religion. I am one

Who preach the law of Christ; and, in my life,

Would practise what he taught. The Son of God

Came not to you in power: humble in mien,
Lowly in heart, the man of Nazareth

Preach'd mercy, justice, love: "Woe unto ye,
Ye that are rich: if that ye would be saved
Sell that ye have, and give unto the poor."
So taught the Saviour: Oh, my honest friends,
Have ye not felt the strong indignant throb
Of justice in your bosoms, to behold
The lordly Baron feasting on your spoils ?
Have you not in your hearts arraign'd the lot
That gave him on the couch of luxury

To pillow his head, and pass the festive day
In sportive feasts, and ease, and revelry?
Have you not often in your conscience ask'd,
Why is the difference; wherefore should that man,
No worthier than myself, thus lord it over me,
And bid me labour, and enjoy the fruits?
The God within your breasts has argued thus :
The voice of truth has murmur'd. Came ye not
As helpless to the world? Shines not the sun
With equal ray on both? Do ye not feel
The self-same winds of heaven as keenly parch ye?
Abundant is the earth-the Sire of all,

Saw and pronounced that it was very good.
Look round: the vernal fields smile with new flowers,
The budding orchard perfumes the sweet breeze,
And the green corn waves to the passing gale.
There is enough for all; but your proud Baron
Stands up, and, arrogant of strength, exclaims,
"I am a Lord-by nature I am noble:

These fields are mine, for I was born to them,
I was born in the castle-you, poor wretches,