Percy Bysshe Shelley     Song to the Men of England                             1 Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear?                             2 Wherefore feed and clothe and save, From the cradle to the grave, Those ungrateful drones who would Drain your sweat--nay, drink your blood?                             3 Wherefore, Bees of England, forge Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, That these stingless drones may spoil The forced produce of your toil?                             4 Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, Shelter, food, love's gentle balm? Or what is it ye buy so dear With your pain and with your fear?                             5 The seed ye sow another reaps; The wealth ye find another keeps; The robes ye weave another wears; The arms ye forge another bears.                             6 Sow seed,--but let no tyrant reap; Find wealth,--let no imposter heap; Weave robes,--let not the idle wear; Forge arms, in your defence to bear.                             7 Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; In halls ye deck another dwells. Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye.                             8 With plough and spade and hoe and loom, Trace your grave, and build your tomb, And weave your winding-sheet, till fair England be your sepulcher. 1819