---- Day and night. ---- We are crushed by the machines. ---- We ourselves are parts of the machines. ---- Brothers! We forge our own chains! The crushed call upon _King-Hunger_ to help them, to save them from the horror of their life. Is he not the most powerful king on earth? _King-Hunger_ comes and exhorts them to rebel. All follow his call except three. One of these is huge of body, of Herculean built, large of muscle but with small, flat head upon his massive shoulders. The second workingman is young, but with the mark of death already upon his brow. He is constantly coughing and the hectic flush on his cheeks betrays the wasting disease of his class. The third workingman is a worn-out old man. Everything about him, even his voice, is deathlike, colorless, as if in his person a thousand lives had been robbed of their bloom. _First Workingman._ I am as old as the earth. I have performed all the twelve labors, cleansed stables, cut off the hydra's heads, dug and vexed the earth, built cities, and have so altered its face, that the Creator himself would not readily recognize her. But I can't say why I did all this. Whose will did I shape? To what end did I aspire? My head is dull. I am dead tired. My strength oppresses me. Explain it to me, O King! Or I'll clutch this hammer and crack the earth as a hollow nut. _King-Hunger._ Patience, my son! Save your powers for the last great revolt. Then you'll know all. _First Workingman._ I shall wait. _Second Workingman._ He cannot comprehend it, O King. He thinks that we must crack the earth. It is a gross falsehood, O King! The earth is fair as the garden of God. We must guard and caress her as a little girl. Many that stand there in the darkness say, there is no sky, no sun, as if eternal night is upon the earth. Just think: eternal night! _King-Hunger._ Why, coughing blood, do you smile and gaze to heaven? _Second Workingman._ Because flowers will blossom on my blood, and I see them now. On the breast of a beautiful rich lady I saw a red rose--she didn't know it was my blood. _King-Hunger._ You are a poet, my son. I suppose you write verses, as they do. _Second Workingman._ King, O King, sneer not at me. In darkness I learned to worship fire. Dying I understood that life is enchanting. Oh, how enchanting! King, it shall become a great garden, and there shall walk in peace, unmolested, men and animals. Dare not ruffle the animals! Wrong not any man! Let them play, embrace, caress one another--let them! But where is the path? Where is the path? Explain, King-Hunger. _King-Hunger._ Revolt. _Second Workingman._ Through violence to freedom? Through blood to love and kisses? _King-Hunger._ There is no other way.