Oldham monologue — Mr. Faust

There's no joke in it! It is the waste, the pitiful waste of life! Men--slaves to gather gold--become then slaves Beneath its gathered weight. For this one hope, All finer longings perish at their birth. Men's eyes to-day envy no sage or seer Or conqueror except his triumphs be In this base sphere of commerce. The stars go out In factory smoke; the spirit wanes and pales In poisoned air of greed. It is an age Of traders and of tricksters; all the high And hounded malefactors of great wealth Differ from the masses, in their wealth, indeed; But in their malefaction, not at all. Your grocer and my butcher have at heart The selfsame aims as he to whom we pay Tribute for every pound of coal we burn. Their scope is narrower, but their act the same As his--against whose millions all the tongues Of little tricksters in each corner store Babble and rail and shriek!