What? do you say that we, the toilers—the slaves—
(Why strain at the gnat name
Who swallow the camel thing your pocket craves?)—
That we are "just the same,"
(Nay, worse) when power is ours and wealth—that we
Are harder masters still,
More keen to ring her last from misery,
More greedy of our will?
'Tis true! And when you see men so—see us
Sneer at us, call us swine!—
"How we must love you who have made us thus,
You may perhaps divine!"