The laboring man and the artificer knows what every hour of his time is worth, and parts not with it but for the full value.
Dear Artificer, I’ve blown my quanta and gone to the Good Place!
Man is the artificer of his own happiness.
Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.