Slaughtering our youths—and all to crown our Chiefs
With glory!—I detest the hell-sprung name.
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,
Privileged 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.
