And all to leave, what with this toil he won, / To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son.

The boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun.

He's hard to get to the ground. You would think that he would be heavy-legged and slow, but he's not.

Mine is the horny hand of toil.

The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.

What then in love can woman do? If we grow fond they shun us. And when we fly them, they pursue: But leave us when they've won us.