University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Smithfield.
Wat Tyler, John Ball, Piers, &c. Mob.
Piers.
So far triumphant are we. How these nobles,
These petty tyrants, who so long oppress'd us,
Shrink at the first resistance.

Hob.
They were powerful
Only because we fondly thought them so.
Where is Jack Straw?

Tyler.
Jack Straw is gone to the Tower
To seize the king, and so to end resistance.

John Ball.
It was well judged; fain would I spare the shedding
Of human blood: gain we that royal puppet
And all will follow fairly; deprived of him,
The nobles lose their pretext, nor will dare
Rebel against the people's majesty.

Enter Herald.
Herald.
Richard the Second, by the grace of God,
Of England, Ireland, France, and Scotland, King,
And of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed,
Would parley with Wat Tyler.

Tyler.
Let him know
Wat Tyler is in Smithfield. [Exit Herald.]
—I will parley
With this young monarch: as he comes to me,
Trusting my honour, on your lives I charge you
Let none attempt to harm him.

John Ball.
The faith of courts
Is but a weak dependence. You are honest—
And better is it even to die the victim
Of credulous honesty, than live preserved
By the cold policy that still suspects.

Enter King, Walworth, Philpot, &c.
King.
I would speak to thee, Wat Tyler: bid the mob
Retire awhile.

Piers.
Nay, do not go alone—
Let me attend you.

Tyler.
Wherefore should I fear?
Am I not arm'd with a just cause? Retire,
And I will boldly plead the cause of Freedom.

[Advances.
King.
Tyler, why have you kill'd my officer,
And led my honest subjects from their homes,
Thus to rebel against the Lord's anointed?

Tyler.
Because they were oppress'd.

King.
Was this the way
To remedy the ill? You should have tried
By milder means—petition'd at the throne—
The throne will always listen to petitions.

Tyler.
King of England,
Petitioning for pity is most weak—
The sovereign people ought to demand justice.
I kill'd your officer, for his lewd hand
Insulted a maid's modesty. Your subjects
I lead to rebel against the Lord's anointed,
Because his ministers have made him odious,
His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous.
Why do we carry on this fatal war,
To force upon the French a king they hate,
Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes,
Forcing his hard-earn'd fruits from the honest peasant,
Distressing us to desolate our neighbours?
Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed,
But to support your court's extravagance,
And your mad title to the crown of France?
Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils
Petitioning for pity? King of England,
Why are we sold like cattle in your markets—
Deprived of every privilege of man?
Must we lie tamely at our tyrant's feet,
And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us?
You sit at ease in your gay palaces,
The costly banquet courts your appetite,
Sweet music soothes your slumbers: we the while,
Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food,
And sleep scarce shelter'd from the cold night wind;
Whilst your wild projects wrests the little from us
Which might have cheer'd the wintry hour of age.
The parliament for ever asks more money;
We toil and sweat for money for your taxes:
Where is the benefit, what good reap we
From all the counsels of your government?
Think you that we should quarrel with the French?
What boots to us your victories, your glory:
We pay, we fight, you profit at your ease.
Do you not claim the country as your own?
Do you not call the venison of the forest,
The birds of heaven your own?—prohibiting us,
Even though in want of food, to seize the prey
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

Walworth
— (comes behind him, and stabs him.)
Insolent rebel, threatening the King!

Piers.
Vengeance! Vengeance!

Hob.
Seize the King.

King.
I must be bold.
(Advancing)
My friends and loving subjects,
I will grant you all you ask; you shall be free—
The tax shall be repeal'd—all, all you wish.
Your leader menaced me, he deserv'd his fate.
Quiet your angers: on my royal word
Your grievances shall all be done away;
Your vassalage abolish'd. A free pardon
Allow'd to all: So help me God, it shall be.

John Ball.
Revenge, my brethren, beseems not Christians:
Send us these terms, sign'd with your seal of state.
We will await in peace. Deceive us not—
Act justly, so to excuse your late foul deed.

King.
The charter shall be drawn out: on mine honour
All shall be justly done.