A Backward Glance Can Often

O Conscience, Upright And Stainless, How Bitter A Sting To Thee Is A Little Fault!

If I Thought I Was Replying To Someone Who Would Every Return To The World, This Flame Would Cease It's Flickering. But Since No One Has Returned From These Depths Alive, If What I've Heard Is True, I Will Answer You Without Fear Of Infamy.

Honor Is The Greatest Poet.

All Your Renown Is Like The Summer Flower That Blooms And Dies; Because The Sunny Glow Which Brings It Forth, Soon Slays With Parching Power.

This Sorrow Weighs Upon The Melancholy Souls Of Those Who Lived Without Infamy Or Praise.