Is it not work enough, is it not a toil of the very soul, to live in a world full of so many sorrows and trials, even if they are visited only upon others? Do we not each of us labour in our hearts each time the strings thereof are tugged upon, each time we feel an emotion, each time we are moved to thought or feeling or words? Each of us is a worker, even those of us who toil only in that factory of the mind. Except for government, they never think so they haven't even got that.