But how much worse for these, whose cup of joy,
Brewed of such simple elements, is dashed
Down from their lips, because some greedy soul
Whom Fortune has placed over them purloins the store
Which wins their frugal gladness, leaving them
Nought but the draff and husks of barren life.
Besides, this rustic here is silent; how shall he
Make his poor voice be heard against the king's ?
We can protest, and bring what's left of law
To guard our good; if he protest he starves,
Or else is clapt i' the stocks to scratch his poll,
And learn he has no title on the earth
To aught save drudgery, and barley bread,
With our wealth
A little salt and water.
A duty has descended; and the poor man's rights
Are bound up with our good; if we forget them
The earth cries out against us, and the curse
Of wasted riches drags our honour down,
And we, the keepers of our brother's soul,
Are writ in heaven as Cains.
You now must act so for him; all the power
By which to rise from slavish degradation
Into the state of freemen has been robbed by force
From the earth's poor in every age of time.
His arm is gyved and palsied, yours is free;
Strike for him, break his bonds, and give him back
The freedom he has lost, which God decreed
Should be for every human soul alike,
But do not rivet fetters on anew,
Forged from old manacles of feudal times;
That he is free, let that be your reward,
That, and high heaven's approval, usurp not
The tyranny you slay, but let him be
Man with yourself, equal in hope, in aim,
In pleasure and in power, denizens alike
Of the free earth and air, and all they hold
Common to both of you; see that your laws
Lie equally on all, and let not wealth or blood
Claim precedence, power, or pride,
Where all as brethren seek the general weal.
Ay, there's the rub, Sir Harry. Where are these
So full of brotherly affection as to let
Their own desires come last? There have not been,
E'en in the greatest ages, many men
Of such a Christian nature. Your republic
Is just, and fair, and free, but 'twill not fit
With the rough temper of the world; the golden age Is not so near us yet; let us secure
The moderate justice of the silver one,
Its peace, industry, right obedience
From those who labour, and from those who rule
Right help and guidance, and we'll be content.
There are disturbing elements in nature
Which drive the world awry, your too ethereal vision
Shoots out of ken of these, your fair republic,
Built on the bubbles of philosophy,
Sinks 'neath the crush of one poor day's true life.
Men shall have liberty to do what's right, and wear
The crown of their right-doing; here in life
To enjoy in full the good their hands have earned,
And the sweet earnest of the world to come
Not warped by error, nor oppressed by pride,
But left to flow out of the fount of life
As free as God intended. Liberty for lust,
For sloth, or cruelty, or deadly vice
Which blots out manhood, or that robs the world
Of good that's clasped in human hand or heart,
These shall not be; there is no freedom here
For evil counsels, appetites, or deeds;
Let not men think to act e'en as they list,
Heedless of right and truth. Our English charters,
Acts and statute-laws, which are the records
Of what the stout, strong, thrifty, valiant hearts
Which formed and ruled our nation age by age
Thought best and wisest, sternly fix the bounds
Of what the king, the noble, knight, or peasant
May and must do; they are the well-built barriers
Whose roots are deeply sunk, which hold the stream
Of national opinion, honour, duty, life,
True to its course, and rightly ordered task.
Therefore I stand by them, for law is highest
Here in our English nation; this is what the wise,
Upright, forethinking men among us,
Living and dead, say and have said, is right.
Vane, this is true policy, at least for us;
We do not ask exemption from one duty
Which these laws lay upon us; let the king
Act royally to us, and loyally
Will we requite his deed. I have no aim
But to make sure the freedom we've in trust
From our forefathers; not a step beyond
The established usages of bygone days,
Recorded privileges, law-guarded claims,
Would I be one to take. Let the king reign!
I would not curb his just authority,
Diminish his high place, nor stint his honour,
If so be that he's worthy.
You're both too absolute, I'll say no more,
Save that I hope, before I'm called to die,
To see our England a republic.
Servant (to Hampden).
Sir, the dinner waits.
Friends, let us go down!
We'll kill a buck among the Chiltern Hills
This afternoon, and you shall ride amidst
The fairest scenery and most fruitful heart
Of this our midland England.
SCENE II.-A room in Lambeth Palace.
Enter WENTWORTH and LAUD.
Your schemes, my lord archbishop, hitherto
Have been too narrow ; 'tis but the overflow
Of full-fed streams which you have dammed and stored. The million petty brooks, and becks, and rills
That feed the ocean of this nation's wealth
Have yielded you no tribute. 'Tis a weary work
To seize the rich man's gains, for he can bring
The civil law to help him, and so bulwarked,
You ever buy your best advantage dear;
Therefore 'tis better that a general tax
Should be imposed on rich and poor alike
Throughout the land, according to their means.
With many backs, you know, the burden 's light,
And the mere shillings of a nation's poor
Outweigh tenfold the wealth of all its lords.
"Twould not be worth the rich man's while to let it,
The poor may grumble but perforce must pay,
For they have no redress. Therefore, I say,
Could we devise some scheme to draw a portion
Of each man's earnings to the king's exchequer,
It were a mighty gain, and such a stroke
Of subtle policy as would establish
Both church and king above the restless hate
Of these accursed sectaries.
My lord, I marvel at your judgment's reach;
This were a thing to be devoutly prayed for;
'Twould crush the hopes of disaffected churls,
Bitter-hearted Puritans, and those bold rogues
Who aim to limit the prerogative.
Ah, 'tis a subtle stroke! Why, this brings back
All the lost 'vantage of four hundred years!
The king will reign indeed, and we shall rule
The nation to our liking under him.
Can this be done? What plan can be devised
To tax the people, yet to baulk their hate?
The law guards for them what they call their rights,
And it has grown to such a pitch of power,
One fears to get within it.
Who fears but misses stroke. Send laws to rot
Among the musty bones of those who made them,
They shall not stop me, nor defeat my aim.
Law's an opponent which main force must strangle
Or yoke unto its will; this last I'll do,
And make the very statutes yield me instruments
To further my designs. Listen, my lord,
You've read our English story, and you know
That there are records in it of old claims
Upon the realm, of money, men, and ships
For its defence. As late as Queen Elizabeth
All the sea-bordering counties had to furnish
Ships to defend the kingdom against Spain.
In that freehearted time the people gave
All they were asked for, but the niggards now
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