_Tyler._ Rank sedition— High treason, every syllable, my child! The priests cry out on him for heresy; The nobles all detest him as a rebel;
And this good man, this minister of Christ, This man, the friend and brother of mankind, Lingers in the dark dungeon!
_Tyler._ Piers, I have not been idle, I never ate the bread of indolence— Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother? Yet but with one child, and that one, how good Thou knowest; I scarcely can provide the wants Of nature: look at these wolves of the law, They come to drain me of my hard-earn’d wages. I have already paid the heavy tax Laid on the wool that clothes me—on my leather— On all the needful articles of life! And now three groats (and I work’d hard to earn them) The Parliament demands—and I must pay them, Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head.
_Collector._ Three groats a-head for all your family.
_Piers._ Why is this money gathered?—’tis a hard tax On the poor labourer!—it can never be That government should thus distress the people. Go to the rich for money—honest labour Ought to enjoy its fruits.
_Col._ The State wants money. War is expensive—’tis a glorious war, A war of honour, and must be supported.— Three groats a-head.
_Tyler._ There, three for my own head, Three for my wife’s!—What will the State tax next?
_Tyler._ She is below the age—not yet fifteen.
_Tyler._ Sir Officer, I have paid you fairly what the law demands.
[_Alice and her Mother enter the Shop. The Tax-gatherers go to her. One of them lays hold of her. She screams. Tyler goes in._]
[_Alice screams again. Tyler knocks out the Tax-gatherer’s brains. His Companions fly._]
_Tyler._ Most just indeed; but in the eye of the law ’Tis murder—and the murderer’s lot is mine.
‘When Adam delv’d and Eve span, ‘Who was then the gentleman?’
Wretched is the infant’s lot, Born within the straw-roof’d cot! Be he generous, wise, or brave, He must only be a slave, Long, long labour, little rest, Still to toil to be oppress’d; Drain’d by taxes of his store, Punish’d next for being poor; That is the poor wretch’s lot, Born within the straw-roof’d cot.
While the peasant works—to sleep; What the peasant sows—to reap; On the couch of ease to lie, Rioting in revelry: Be he villain, be he fool, Still to hold despotic rule, Trampling on his slaves with scorn; This is to be nobly born. ‘When Adam delv’d and Eve span, ‘Who was then the gentleman?’