See you not, that at once, to all arts there would be, to each craft that you reckon, an end?
If these were exploded (so much to your joy), say who then should there be, who would lend
To the forge, to the hammer, the adze or the loom—to the rule or the mallet—his hand?
Not a soul! The mechanic, the carpenter, shipwright—would all be expelled from the land.
Where would tailor, or cobbler, or dyer of leather, or bricklay’r, or tanner be found?
Who would e’er condescend in this golden vacation, to till, for his bread’s sake, the ground?
Blepsidemus:—Hold, hold, jade! Whatever essentials of life in your catalogue’s column you string,
Our servants, of course, shall provide us.
Poverty:—Your servants? and whence do you think they shall spring?
Blepsidemus:—We shall buy them with cash—