„The lot of man is ceaseless labor,Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder,Or irregular labour, which is not pleasant.I have trodden the winepress alone, and I knowThat it is hard to be really useful, resigningThe things that men count for happiness, seekingThe good deeds that lead to obscurity, acceptingWith equal face those that bring ignominy,The applause of all or the love of none.All men are ready to invest their moneyBut most expect dividends.I say to you: Make perfect your will.I say: take no thought of the harvest,But only of proper sowing.“

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