Sick, irritated, and the prey to a thousand discomforts, I go on with my labor like a true workingman, who, with sleeves rolled up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, not caring whether it rains or blows, hails or thunders.

If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper that did his job well.

You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane for miles, but you can still be working on a plantation.

Eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will.

Labor is no disgrace.

The best augury of a man’s success in his profession is that he thinks it the finest in the world.

God sells us all things at the price of labor.

A human being must have occupation, if he or she is not to become a nuisance to the world.