What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you
With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you
With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

The rather since every man is the son of his own works.
[Sp., Quanto mas que cada uno es read more

The rather since every man is the son of his own works.
[Sp., Quanto mas que cada uno es hijo de sus obras.]

The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not read more

The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.

Our greatest weariness comes from work not done.

Our greatest weariness comes from work not done.

When Adam dalfe and Eve spane
So spire if thou may spede,
Where was then the pride read more

When Adam dalfe and Eve spane
So spire if thou may spede,
Where was then the pride of man,
That nowe merres his mede?

Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it,
and finds himself no wiser than before. read more

Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it,
and finds himself no wiser than before. He is full of murderous
resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by
their ignorance the hard way.

"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."

"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."

Do your work with your whole heart, and you will succeed - there's so little competition.

Do your work with your whole heart, and you will succeed - there's so little competition.

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.