Charity

Things that are dear to me at home,

Need all my help, and more;

And many a kindly thought I kill,

For the stranger at my door;

Yet every generous impulse slain,

Is a ghost that haunts me still.

It's better that a woman had

A love-child at her breast,

That live a heartless, selfish maid;

It's better that a man should trust

A worthless knave, than never have

His love or innocence betrayed.