The smell of profit is clean and sweet, whatever the source.
Majestic mighty Wealth is the holiest of our gods.
A pauper traveller will sing before a beggar.
It is a wretched thing to rest upon the fame of others, lest, the supporting pillar being removed, the superstructure should collapse in ruin.
The itch of scribbling.
It is sheer folly when all is gone to lose even one's passage money.