Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargai… - James Russell Lowell

At the devil's booth are all things sold. Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold.

It's 'most enough to make a deacon swear.

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and winged things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I

How little inventiveness there is in man,
Grave copier of copies, I give thanks
For a new relish, careless to inquire
My pleasure's pedigree, if so it please,
Nobly, I mean, nor renegade to art.
The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,
Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,
The one thing finished in this hasty world,
Forever finished, though the barbarous pit,
Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout
As if a miracle could be encored.