One Good Deed Dying Tongueless Slaughters A

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You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

Conscience Doth Make Cowards Of Us All.

Look, The World's Comforter, With Weary Gait, His Day's Hot Task Hath Ended In The West: The Owl, Night's Herald, Shrieks-'tis Very Late; The Sheep Are Gone To Fold, Birds To Their Nest; And Coal-black Clouds, That Shadow Heaven's Light, Do Summon Us To Part, And Bid Good Night.

What's The News? None, My Lord, But That The World's Grown Honest, Then Is Doomsday Near.