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.

Nothing will work unless you do.

Nothing will work unless you do.

If A equals success, then the formula is A equals X plus Y and Z, with X being work, Y read more

If A equals success, then the formula is A equals X plus Y and Z, with X being work, Y play, and Z keeping your mouth shut.

Why, universal plodding poisons up
The nimble spirits in the arteries,
As motion and long-during action tires
read more

Why, universal plodding poisons up
The nimble spirits in the arteries,
As motion and long-during action tires
The sinewy vigor of the traveller.

All Nature seems at work, slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
read more

All Nature seems at work, slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.

Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.

A woman's work, grave sirs, is never done.

A woman's work, grave sirs, is never done.

There is joy in work. There is no happiness except in the realization that we have accomplished something.

There is joy in work. There is no happiness except in the realization that we have accomplished something.

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?