The lot of man is ceaseless labour, Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder, Or irregular labor, which is not pleasant. I have trodden the winepress alone, and I know That it is hard to be really useful, resigning The things that men count for happiness, seeking The good deeds that lead to obscurity, accepting With equal face those that bring ignominy, The applause of all or the love of none.
All men are ready to invest their money But most expect dividends.