Truth Is Truth To The End Of

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

The Love That Follows Us Sometime Is Our Trouble, Which Still We Thank As Love.

Unbidden Guests Are Often Welcomest When They Are Gone.

I Am A Jew. Hath Not A Jew Eyes? Hath Not A Jew Hands, Organs, Dimensions, Senses, Affections, Passions?

Who Seeks, And Will Not Take, When Once 'tis Offer'd, Shall Never Find It More.