Der. Farewell, sweet prince, the hope of chivalry! Art. O, would my life might ransom him from death!

K. Edw. But, soft; methinks I hear

(Retreat sounded.)

The dismal charge of trumpets' loud retreat:
All are not slain, I hope, that went with him;
Some will return with tidings, good or bad.

(Enter Prince Edward in triumph, bearing in his hand his shivered lance; his sword, and battered armour, borne before him, and the body of the King of Bohemia, wrapped in the colours. Lords run and embrace him.)

Aud. O joyful sight! victorious Edward lives!
Der. Welcome, brave prince!

K. Edw.

Pr. Edw. First having done my duty, as beseem'd, (Kneels, and kisses his father's hand.) Lords, I regreet you all with hearty thanks. And now, behold, — after my winter's toil, My painful voyage on the boist'rous sea Of war's devouring gulfs and steely rocks, I bring my fraught unto the wishèd port, My summer's hope, my travel's sweet reward: And here with humble duty I present

This sacrifice, this firstfruit of my sword,
Cropp'd and cut down even at the gate of death,

The King of Boheme, father, whom I slew;

Whose thousands had intrench'd me round about,
And lay as thick upon my batter'd crest
As on an anvil with their pond'rous glaives:
Yet marble courage still did underprop;
And when my weary arms with often blows,
Like the continual-lab'ring woodman's axe
That is enjoin'd to fell a load of oaks, —
Began to falter, straight I would remember
My gifts you gave me and my zealous vow,
And then new courage made me fresh again;
That, in despite, I carv'd my passage forth
And put the multitude to speedy flight.
Lo, thus hath Edward's hand fill'd your request,
And done, I hope, the duty of a knight.

K. Edw. Ay, well thou hast deserv'd a knighthood,
Ned!

And, therefore, with thy sword, yet reeking warm
(Receiving it from the soldier who bore it and lay-
ing it on the kneeling Prince.)

With blood of those that sought to be thy bane,
Arise, Prince Edward, trusty knight at arms:
This day thou hast confounded me with joy
And proved thyself fit heir unto a king.

WAT TYLER

ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE French war so brilliantly begun dragged on through the fourteenth century. France could not be forced to accept a foreign king; while the frequent expeditions across the Channel brought a ruinous drain upon the resources of England. Thousands of peasant soldiers were killed in battle or left to die of wounds or disease, and the burden of taxation was felt even by the very poor. Richard II., the ten-year-old son of the Black Prince, came to the throne on the death of Edward III. He was a brave, handsome lad, who sought his own pleasure and did nothing to remedy the distress of the people. The ruthless exaction of a poll-tax in 1381 exasperated the peasants beyond endurance, and they rose in revolt. The government was not prepared for resistance, and the insurgents got possession of London. The counsellors of the king urged him to quiet the people by promising all they asked. He did so and easily persuaded them to return to their homes, bearing the king's worthless pledges that their grievances should be set right. Some of the leaders, Wat Tyler, John Ball, and others, stayed in London to make sure that the royal word was kept. They were summoned to meet the king at Smithfield, and there, because he dared to speak openly, Wat Tyler was struck down and fatally wounded. John Ball was soon after arrested, tried, and put to death. Thousands of peasants were slain by the king's officers, who were sent into the provinces to quell the insurrection. So the Peasants' Revolt was crushed in blood, but the ideas of Wat Tyler and John Ball have nevertheless prevailed.

ACT I

SCENE I. A Blacksmith's Shop; Wat Tyler at work within; a May-pole before the door.

Hob Carter. Curse on these taxes

Our ministers, panders of a king's will,

one succeeds

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-earn'd wages of our honest toil.
The Parliament forever 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 courtiers' 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 earn'd 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,

BLACKHEATH. Tyler, Hob, etc.

Song.

"When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman ?

Jack Straw. The mob are up in London — the proud courtiers

Begin to tremble.

Tom Miller.

Ay, ay, 'tis time to tremble: Who'll plough their fields, who'll do their drudgery

now,

And work like horses to give them the harvest?

Jack Straw. I only wonder we lay quiet so long. We had always the same strength; and we deserved The ills we met with for not using it.

Hob. Why do we fear those animals call'd lords? What is there in the name to frighten us?

Is not my arm as mighty as a Baron's?

*

Jack Straw.

*

*

March we for London.

Tyler. Mark me, my friends-we rise for Liberty— Jack Straw. Justice shall be our guide: let no man dare

K