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?
Col. You have a daughter.
Tyler. She is below the age—not yet fifteen.
Col. You would evade the tax.—
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.]
Col. You say she's under age.
[Alice screams again. Tyler knocks out the Tax-gatherer's brains. His Companions fly.]
Piers. A just revenge.
Tyler. Most just indeed; but in the eye of the law
'Tis murder—and the murderer's lot is mine.
Morceau IV.—Song.
"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:
This 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;
