_Piers._ I fear me—by the mass, the unsteady people Are flocking homewards! how the multitude Diminishes! MORCEAU THE LAST. _John Ball._ Why, be it so. I can smile at your vengeance: For I am arm’d with rectitude of soul. The truth, which all my life I have divulg’d, And am now doom’d in torment to expire for, Shall still survive—the destin’d hour must come, When it shall blaze with sun-surpassing splendor, And the dark mists of prejudice and falsehood Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery’s incense No more shall shadow round the gore-dyed throne; That altar of oppression, fed with rites More savage than the priests of Moloch taught, Shall be consumed amid the fire of Justice: The ray of truth shall emanate around, And the whole world be lighted! This will do. THE COURIER AND ‘THE WAT TYLER.’ Doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour?—_Much Ado about Nothing._ _March 30, 1817._ Instead of applying for an injunction against _Wat Tyler_, Mr. Southey would do well to apply for an injunction against Mr. Coleridge, who has undertaken his defence in _The Courier_. If he can escape from the ominous patronage of that gentleman’s pen, he has nothing to fear from his own. ‘The _Wat Tyler_,’ as Mr. Coleridge has personified it, can do the author no great harm: it only proves that he was once a wild enthusiast: of the two characters, for which Mr. Southey is a candidate with the public, this is the most creditable for him to appear in. At present his reputation ‘somewhat smacks.’ A strong dose of the Jacobin spirit of _Wat Tyler_ may be of use to get the sickly taste of the Poet-laureate and the Quarterly Reviewer out of our mouths.