Money speaks sense in a language all nations understand.

The money market is to a commercial nation what the heart is to man.

Everyone lives by selling something.

For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.

There is no blindness more insidious, more fatal, than this race for profit.

Some people make stuff; other people have to buy it. And when we gave up making stuff, starting in the 1980s, we were left with the unique role of buying.

More pernicious nonsense was never devised by man than treaties of commerce.

You must not grow used to making money out of everything. One sees more people ruined than one has seen preserved by shameful gains.

A merchant may, perhaps, be a man of an enlarged mind, but there is nothing in trade connected with an enlarged mind.

We get a deal o’ useless things about us, only because we’ve got the money to spend.

Commerce tends to wear off those prejudices which maintain distinction and animosity between nations.

The merchant always has fresh losses to expect, and the dread of base poverty forbids his rest.

Money is a language for translating the work of the farmer into the work of the barber, doctor, engineer, or plumber.