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.
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The Moor has done his work, the Moor may go.
[Ger., Der Mohr hat seine Arbeit gethan, der Mohr read more
The Moor has done his work, the Moor may go.
[Ger., Der Mohr hat seine Arbeit gethan, der Mohr kann gehen.]
Work is a necessity for man. Man invented the alarm clock.
Work is a necessity for man. Man invented the alarm clock.
All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is
not satisfied with seeing, nor the read more
All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is
not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled hearing.
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 have had my labor for my travail; ill-thought-on of her, and
ill-thought-on of you; gone between and between, read more
I have had my labor for my travail; ill-thought-on of her, and
ill-thought-on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks
for my labor.
Earned with the sweat of my brows.
Earned with the sweat of my brows.
God be thank'd that the dead have left still
Good undone for the living to do--
Still read more
God be thank'd that the dead have left still
Good undone for the living to do--
Still some aim for the heart and the will
And the soul of a man to pursue.
You're blessed if you have the strength to work.
You're blessed if you have the strength to work.
When Darby saw the setting sun
He swung his scythe, and home he run,
Sat down, drank read more
When Darby saw the setting sun
He swung his scythe, and home he run,
Sat down, drank off his quart and said,
"My work is done, I'll go to bed."
"My work is done!" retorted Joan,
"My work is done! Your constant tone,
But hapless woman ne'er can say
'My work is done' till judgment day."
