But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and
pen,
We will work for ourself read more

But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and
pen,
We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, Amen.

Basically, I no longer work for anything but the sensation I have
while working.

Basically, I no longer work for anything but the sensation I have
while working.

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out read more

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight,
Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To put on when you're weary--or a stool
To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool!
Or else at best, a cushion where you lean
And sleep, and dream of something we are not,
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas!
This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid
The worth of our work, perhaps.

Our greatest weariness comes from work not done.

Our greatest weariness comes from work not done.

There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be read more

There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be in the first group; there is less competition there.

I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest read more

I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest works must have one common end,
And nothing crown the tablet of his name.

To build may have to be the slow and laborious task of years. To
destroy can be the thoughtless read more

To build may have to be the slow and laborious task of years. To
destroy can be the thoughtless act of a single day.

I try to be known more for my work than for anything else.

I try to be known more for my work than for anything else.

Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holyday-rejoicing spirit down . . .
To that read more

Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holyday-rejoicing spirit down . . .
To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . .
Sabbathless Satan!