I am not bound over to swear allegiance to any master; where the storm drives me I turn in for shelter.
And take back ill-polished stanzas to the anvil.
Shun to seek what is hid in the womb of the morrow, and set down as gain in life's ledger whatever time fate shall have granted thee.
From the egg to the apple.
The covetous man is ever in want.
We are free to yield to truth.