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Drive Nature out with a pitchfork, yet she hurries back, And will burst through your foolish contempt, triumphant.
— Horace
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In all lands, sailors form a race apart. They profess a congenital contempt for landlubbers. As for the tradesman, he understands nothing of sailors nor cares a fig about them. He is content to rob them if he can.
— Honore de Balzac
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