_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 he 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 soft 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, Whelp’d in the cottage, are by birth my slaves.’ Almighty God! such blasphemies are uttered! Almighty God! such blasphemies believ’d! _Tom Miller._ This is something like a sermon. _Jack Straw._ Where’s the bishop Would tell you truths like these? _Hob._ There was never a bishop among all the apostles. _John Ball._ My brethren! _Piers._ Silence, the good priest speaks. _John Ball._ My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones Ye are all equal; nature made ye so. Equality is your birthright;—when I gaze On the proud palace, and behold one man In the blood-purpled robes of royalty, Feasting at ease, and lording over millions; Then turn me to the hut of poverty, And see the wretched labourer, worn with toil, Divide his scanty morsel with his infants; I sicken, and, indignant at the sight, ‘Blush for the patience of humanity.’ _Jack Straw._ We will assert our rights. MORCEAU VI.