In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return
unto the ground; for out of read more

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return
unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou
art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

If I went to work in a factory the first thing I'd do is join a union.

If I went to work in a factory the first thing I'd do is join a union.

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.

With hand on the spade and heart in the sky
Dress the ground and till it;
Turn read more

With hand on the spade and heart in the sky
Dress the ground and till it;
Turn in the little seed, brown and dry,
Turn out the golden millet.
Work, and your house shall be duly fed:
Work, and rest shall be won;
I hold that a man had better be dead
Than alive when his work is done.

Joy to the Toiler!--him that tills
The fields with Plenty crowned;
Him with the woodman's axe that read more

Joy to the Toiler!--him that tills
The fields with Plenty crowned;
Him with the woodman's axe that thrills
The wilderness profound.

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out read more

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out and the labour done.

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.]

I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works.

I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works.

How many a rustic Milton has passed by,
Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,
In unremitting read more

How many a rustic Milton has passed by,
Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,
In unremitting drudgery and care!
How many a vulgar Cato has compelled
His energies, no longer tameless then,
To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!