Get leave to work In this world,--'tis the best you get at all.

Free men freely work: Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.

Let no one till his death Be called unhappy. Measure not the work Until the day's out and the labour done.

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.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For tis not in mere death that men die most.