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 birth-right;—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.
Tyler. King of England,
Petitioning for pity is most weak,
The sovereign people ought to demand justice.
