_Tyler._ King of England, _Petitioning for pity_ is most weak, The sovereign people ought to _demand justice_. I killed your officer, for his lewd hand Insulted a maid’s modesty; your subjects I lead to rebel against the Lord’s anointed, Because his ministers have made him odious: His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous. Why do we carry on this fatal war, To force upon the French a king they hate; Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes; Forcing his hard-earn’d fruits from the honest peasant; Distressing us to desolate our neighbours? Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed, But to support your court’s extravagance, And your mad title to the crown of France? Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils, Petitioning for pity? King of England! Why are we sold like cattle in your markets— Deprived of every privilege of man? Must we lie tamely at our tyrant’s feet, And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us? You sit at ease in your gay palaces, The costly banquet courts your appetite, Sweet music sooths your slumbers; we the while, Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food, And sleep scarce shelter’d from the cold night wind: While your wild projects wrest the little from us Which might have cheered the wintry hour of age: The parliament for ever asks more money: We toil and sweat for money for your taxes; Where is the benefit, what food reap we From all the councils of your government? Think you that we should quarrel with the French? What boots to us your victories, your glory? We pay, we fight, you profit at your ease. Do you not claim the country as your own? Do you not call the venison of the forest, The birds of heaven your own?—prohibiting us, Even tho’ in want of food, to seize the prey Which nature offers?—King! is all this just? Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer? The hour of retribution is at hand, And tyrants tremble—mark me, King of England. MORCEAU VII. _Hob._ ’Twas well order’d, I place but little trust in courtly faith. _John Ball._ We must remain embodied; else the king Will plunge again in royal luxury; And when the storm of danger is past over, Forget his promises. _Hob._ Aye, like an aguish sinner, He’ll promise to repent when the fit’s on him; When well recover’d, laugh at his own terrors. _Piers._ Oh! I am griev’d that we must gain so little! Why are not all these empty ranks abolish’d, King, slave, and lord, ‘ennobl’d into MAN?’ Are we not equal all?—have you not told me, Equality is the sacred right of man, Inalienable, tho’ by force withheld? _John Ball._ Even so; but Piers, my frail and fallible judgment Knows hardly to decide if it be right, Peaceably to return, content with little, With this half restitution of our rights, Or boldly to proceed thro’ blood and slaughter, Till we should all be equal and all happy. I chose the milder way:—perhaps I erred.