But your fathers bowed down to their masters
  And obeyed them and served and adored. 
Shall the sheep not give thanks to their pastors? 
  Shall the serf not give praise to his lord? 
      Time, waning and gaining,
        Grown other now than then,
      Needs pastors and masters
        For sheep, and not for men.

If his grandsire did service in battle,
  If his grandam was kissed by a king,
Must men to my lord be as cattle
  Or as apes that he leads in a string? 
      To deem so, to dream so,
        Would bid the world proclaim
      The dastards for bastards,
        Not heirs of England’s fame.

Not in spite but in right of dishonour,
  There are actors who trample your boards
Till the earth that endures you upon her
  Grows weary to bear you, my lords. 
      Your token is broken,
        It will not pass for gold: 
      Your glory looks hoary,
        Your sun in heaven turns cold.

They are worthy to reign on their brothers,
  To contemn them as clods and as carles,
Who are Graces by grace of such mothers
  As brightened the bed of King Charles. 
      What manner of banner,
        What fame is this they flaunt,
      That Britain, soul-smitten,
        Should shrink before their vaunt?

Bright sons of sublime prostitution,
  You are made of the mire of the street
Where your grandmothers walked in pollution
  Till a coronet shone at their feet. 
      Your Graces, whose faces
        Bear high the bastard’s brand,
      Seem stronger no longer
        Than all this honest land.

But the sons of her soldiers and seamen,
  They are worthy forsooth of their hire. 
If the father won praise from all free men,
  Shall the sons not exult in their sire? 
      Let money make sunny
        And power make proud their lives,
      And feed them and breed them
        Like drones in drowsiest hives.

But if haply the name be a burden
  And the souls be no kindred of theirs,
Should wise men rejoice in such guerdon
  Or brave men exult in such heirs? 
      Or rather the father
        Frown, shamefaced, on the son,
      And no men but foemen,
        Deriding, cry ‘Well done’?

Let the gold and the land they inherit
  Pass ever from hand into hand: 
In right of the forefather’s merit
  Let the gold be the son’s, and the land. 
      Soft raiment, rich payment,
        High place, the state affords;
      Full measure of pleasure,
        But now no more, my lords.

Is the future beleaguered with dangers
  If the poor be far other than slaves? 
Shall the sons of the land be as strangers
  In the land of their forefathers’ graves? 
      Shame were it to bear it,
        And shame it were to see: 
      If free men you be, men,
        Let proof proclaim you free.