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WAT TYLER;

A DRAMA.

TWENTY years ago, upon the surreptitious publication of this notable Drama, and the use which was made of it, I said what it then became me to say in a letter to one of those gentlemen who thought proper to revile me, not for having entertained democratical opinions, but for having outgrown them, and learnt to appreciate and to defend the institutions of my country.

Had I written lewdly in my youth, like Beza, like Beza, I would ask pardon of God and man; and no considerations should induce me to reprint what I could never think of without sorrow and shame. Had I at any time, like St. Augustine, taught doctrines which I afterwards perceived to be erroneous; and if, as in his case, my position in society, and the estimation in which I was held, gave weight to what I had advanced, and made those errors dangerous to others, like St. Augustine, I would publish my retractations, and endeavor to counteract the evil which, though erringly, with no evil intention, I had caused.

Wherefore, then, it may be asked, have I included "Wat Tyler in this collection of my poetical works? For these reasons, that it may not be supposed I think it any reproach to have written it, or that I am more ashamed of having been a republican than of having been a boy. Quicunque ista lecturi sunt, non me imitentur errantem, sed in melius proficientem. Inveniet enim fortasse, quomodo scribendo profecerim, quisquis opuscula mea, ordine quo scripta sunt, legerit."

* St. Augustine.

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I have endeavored to correct, in my other juvenile pieces, such faults as were corrigible. But "Wat Tyler" appears just as it was written, in the course of three mornings, in 1794; the stolen copy, which was committed to the press twentythree years afterwards, not having undergone the slightest correction of any kind.

SCENE.

A C T I.

A blacksmith's shop; Wat Tyler at work within; a May-pole before the door

ALICE, PIERS, &c.

SONG.

CHEERFUL on this holiday,
Welcome we the merry May.

On every sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose lifts her head;
Rich with sweets, the western gale
Sweeps along the cowsliped dale ;
Every bank, with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.

The linnet from the budding grove
Chirps her vernal song of love;

The copse resounds the throstle's notes;
On each wild gale sweet music floats;
And melody from every spray

Welcomes in the merry May.

Cheerful on this holiday,

Welcome we the merry May. [Dance.

[During the dance, Tyler lays down his hammer, and sits mournfully down before the door.

Hob Carter. Why so sad, neighbor? Do not

these gay sports,

This revelry of youth, recall the days

When we, too, mingled in the revelry,
And, lightly tripping in the morris-dance,
Welcomed the merry month?

Tyler.

Ay, we were young;

No cares had quelled the heyday of the blood :
We sported deftly in the April morning,

[noon,

Nor marked the black clouds gathering o'er our Nor feared the storm of night.

Hob.

Beshrew me, Tyler, But my heart joys to see the imps so cheerful! Young, hale, and happy, why should they destroy These blessings by reflection?

Tyler.

Look ye, neighbor:

Since we were boys together,

You have known me long.

Hob.

And played at barley-brake, and danced the morris ;

Some five and twenty years.

Tyler.

And hale and happy?

Hob.

Was not I young

Cheerful as the best.

Tyler. Have not I been a staid, hard-working

man?

Up with the lark at labor; sober, honest,

Of an unblemished character?

Hob.

Who doubts it?

There's never a man in Essex bears a better.

Tyler. And shall not these, though young and
hale and happy,

Look on with sorrow to the future hour?
Shall not reflection poison all their pleasures?
When I - the honest, staid, hard-working Tyler —
Toil through the long course of the summer's day,
Still toiling, yet still poor! when with hard labor
Scarce can I furnish out my daily food,

And age comes on to steal away my strength,
And leave me poor and wretched! Why should
this be?

My youth was regular, my labor constant.
I married an industrious, virtuous woman;
Nor, while I toiled and sweated at the anvil,
Sat she neglectful of her spinning-wheel.
Hob! I have only six groats in the world,
And they must soon by law be taken from me.
Hob. Curse on these taxes! one succeeds another.
Our ministers, panders of a king's will,
Drain all our wealth away, waste it in revels,
And lure or force away our boys, who should be
The props of our old age, to fill their armies,
And feed the crows of France. Year follows year,
And still we madly prosecute the war;

Draining our wealth, distressing our poor peasants,
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,

Though 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-earned 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, earned 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 ruffians! [Piers & Alice advance to him. Alice. Did we not dance it well to-day, my father? You know I always loved these village sports,

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