I Have Never Yet Known A Poet

O Tempora! O Mores! O What Times (are These)! What Morals!

The Enemy Is Within The Gates; It Is With Our Own Luxury, Our Own Folly, Our Own Criminality That We Have To Contend.

If I Am Mistaken In My Opinion That The Human Soul Is Immortal, I Willingly Err; Nor Would I Have This Pleasant Error Extorted From Me; And If, As Some Minute Philosophers Suppose, Death Should Deprive Me Of My Being, I Need Not Fear The Raillery Of Those Pretended Philosophers When They Are No More.

Yield, Ye Arms, To The Toga; To Civic Praise, Ye Laurels.

Hmm... That's Like Telling You About The Cold Of Space, Or Terror Of Midnight. Sithis Is All Those Things. He Is... The Void.