The End Of Man Is Action.

All Work, Even Cotton-spinning, Is Noble; Work Is Alone Noble.

Blessed Is He Who Has Found His Work; Let Him Ask No Other Blessedness.

All Men, If They Work Not As In The Great Taskmaster's Eye, Will Work Wrong, And Work Unhappily For Themselves And For You.

Histories Are A Kind Of Distilled Newspapers.

But The Whim We Have Of Happiness Is Somewhat Thus. By Certain Valuations, And Averages, Of Our Own Striking, We Come Upon Some Sort Of Average Terrestrial Lot; This We Fancy Belongs To Us By Nature, And Of Indefeasible Rights. It Is Simple Payment Of Our Wages, Of Our Deserts; Requires Neither Thanks Nor Complaint. Foolish Soul! What Act Of Legislature Was There That Thou Shouldst Be Happy? A Little While Ago Thou Hadst No Right To Be At All.