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.
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,
