Punishment of a miser - to pay the drafts of his heir in his tomb.
The money complex is the demonic, and the demonic is God's ape; the money complex is therefore the heir to and substitute for the religious complex, an attempt to find God in things.
The way to be immortal (I mean not to die at all) is to have me for your heir. I recommend you to put me in your will and you will see that (as long as I live at least) you will never even catch cold.
Here is a mental treatment guaranteed to cure every ill that flesh is heir to: sit for half an hour every night and mentally forgive everyone against whom you have any ill will or antipathy.
This the curse of service: Preferment goes by letter and affection, and not by old gradation, where each second stood heir to the first.
Is it not strange, that an infant should be heir of the whole world, and see those mysteries which the books of the learned never unfold?
But when the husbandmen saw him, they reasoned among themselves, saying, This is the heir: come, let us kill him, that the inheritance may be ours.
I'm the heir apparent to the heir presumptive.
Hope is a prodigal young heir, and experience is his banker.
The patient is not likely to recover who makes the doctor his heir.
Those in supreme power always suspect and hate their next heir.
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, / What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
A memory steals in from lost heavens of Truth,
A wide release comes near, a Glory calls,
A might looks out, an estranged felicity.
In glamorous passages of half-veiled light
Wandering, a brilliant shadow of itself,
This quick uncertain leader of blind gods,
This tender of small lamps, this minister serf
Hired by a mind and body for earth-use
Forgets its work mid crude realities;
It recovers its renounced imperial right,
It wears once more a purple robe of thought
And knows itself the Ideal's seer and king,
Communicant and prophet of the Unborn,
Heir to delight and immortality.
All things are real that here are only dreams,
In our unknown depths sleeps their reserve of truth,
On our unreached heights they reign and come to us
In thought and muse trailing their robes of light.
And you can't part a boy from his father,
You can't part a boy from his dad,
You can't part a Scotchman from money
No matter how many he's had.
You can't part the skin of a sausage
Or a dad from his fond son and heir,
And you can't part the hair on a bald-headed man
For there'll be no parting there.