Labor is no disgrace.

Toil is man’s allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that’s more than either, the grief and sin of idleness.

A man is not idle, because he is absorbed in thought. There is visible labor and there is an invisible labor.

He that would eat the nut must crack the shell.

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.

It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.

Hang work! I wish that all the year were holiday; I am sure that Indolence—indefeasible Indolence—is the true state of man.

God sells us all things at the price of labor.