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    Song-To the Men of England

    by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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    Men of England, wherefore plough
    For the lords who lay ye low?
    Wherefore weave with toil and care
    The rich robes your tyrants wear?

    Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
    From the cradle to the grave,
    Those ungrateful drones who would
    Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?

    Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
    Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
    That these stingless drones may spoil
    The forced produce of your toil?

    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?

    The seed ye sow another reaps;
    The wealth ye find another keeps;
    The robes ye weave another wears;
    The arms ye forge another bears.

    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.

    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.

    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 sepulchre!
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