If good men would be free then must they fight,
Must raise a day of deeds against bad night,
Wave banners of the truth o’er low’ring sky,
And speak, to spear the evils crawling by.
These wretch-ed mobbing bugs of low-heads vile,
Who hate the sun because the sun doth smile,
Their squint souls must be lit, their wholes to see,
That they then shrink themselves for fright to be.
Otherwise, force must head them dead to grave,
Yea, force of right make their foul night behave,
For where there’s reason there is might the most
To make a parasite depart his host.
Then judge them, yea, oh judge them unto death;
The air will purify when they are past last breath.