Honesty Is Not The Best

Good Name In Man And Woman, Dear My Lord, Is The Immediate Jewel Of Their Souls: Who Steals My Purse Steals Trash; ’tis Something, Nothing; ’twas Mine, ’tis His, And Has Been Slave To Thousands; But He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Not Enriches Him, And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

That Is Honor's Scorn Which Challenges Itself As Honor's Born And Is Not Like The Sire. Honors Thrive When Rather From Our Acts We Them Derive Than Our Foregoers.

These Words Are Razors To My Wounded Heart.

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

Mercy Is Not Itself, That Oft Looks So; Pardon Is Still The Nurse Of Second Woe.