It Is A Comfort To The Miserable

What Feeds Me Destroys Me.

Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

Things That Are Not At All, Are Never Lost.

Who Hateth Me But For My Happiness? Or Who Is Honored Now But For His Wealth? Rather Had I, A Jew, Be Hated Thus, Than Pitied In A Christian Poverty.

I Count Religion But A Childish Toy, And Hold There Is No Sin But Ignorance.