_Tyler._ What matters me who wears the crown of France? Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it? They reap the glory—they enjoy the spoil— We pay—we bleed! The sun would shine as cheerly, The rains of heaven as seasonably fall, Tho’ neither of these royal pests existed. _Hob._ Nay—as for that, we poor men should fare better! No legal robbers then should force away The hard-earn’d wages of our honest toil. The Parliament for ever cries _more money, The service of the State demands more money_. Just heaven! of what service is the State? _Tyler._ Oh! ’tis of vast importance! Who should pay for The luxuries and riots of the court? Who should support the flaunting courtier’s pride, Pay for their midnight revels, their rich garments, Did not the State enforce?—Think ye, my friend, That I—a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford, Would part with these six groats—earn’d by hard toil, All that I have! to massacre the Frenchmen; Murder as enemies men I never saw, Did not the State compel me! (_Tax-gatherers pass by._) There they go, Privileg’d r——s! MORCEAU II. _Piers._ Fare not the birds well, as from spray to spray Blithsome they bound—yet find their simple food Scattered abundantly? _Tyler._ _No fancied boundaries of mine and thine Restrain their wanderings_: Nature gives enough For all; but Man, with arrogant selfishness, Proud of his heaps, hoards up superfluous stores Robb’d from his weaker fellows, starves the poor, Or gives to pity what he owes to justice! _Piers._ So I have heard our good friend John Ball preach. _Alice._ My father, wherefore was John Ball imprisoned? Was he not charitable, good, and pious? I have heard him say that all mankind are brethren, And that like brethren they should love each other;— Was not that doctrine pious? _Tyler._ Rank sedition— High treason, every syllable, my child! The priests cry out on him for heresy; The nobles all detest him as a rebel; And this good man, this minister of Christ, This man, the friend and brother of mankind, Lingers in the dark dungeon! MORCEAU III. _Tyler._ Piers, I have not been idle, I never ate the bread of indolence— Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother? Yet but with one child, and that one, how good Thou knowest; I scarcely can provide the wants Of nature: look at these wolves of the law, They come to drain me of my hard-earn’d wages. I have already paid the heavy tax Laid on the wool that clothes me—on my leather— On all the needful articles of life! And now three groats (and I work’d hard to earn them) The Parliament demands—and I must pay them, Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head. _Enter Tax-gatherers._ _Collector._ Three groats a-head for all your family.