The guilty is he who meditates a crime; the punishment is his who lays the plot.

The guilty is he who meditates a crime; the punishment is his who lays the plot.

The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.

The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.

Let no guilty man escape, if it can be avoided. No personal
consideration should stand in the way of read more

Let no guilty man escape, if it can be avoided. No personal
consideration should stand in the way of performing a public
duty.

Nothing is more wretched that the mind of a man conscious of
guilt.
[Lat., Nihil est miserius quam read more

Nothing is more wretched that the mind of a man conscious of
guilt.
[Lat., Nihil est miserius quam animus hominis conscius.]

Sin with the multitude, and your responsibility and guilt are as great and as truly personal, as if you alone read more

Sin with the multitude, and your responsibility and guilt are as great and as truly personal, as if you alone had done the wrong

Action and care will in time wear down the strongest frame, but guilt and melancholy are poisons of quick dispatch.

Action and care will in time wear down the strongest frame, but guilt and melancholy are poisons of quick dispatch.

Men's minds are too ingenious in palliating guilt in themselves.
[Lat., Ingenia humana sunt ad suam cuique levandam culpam read more

Men's minds are too ingenious in palliating guilt in themselves.
[Lat., Ingenia humana sunt ad suam cuique levandam culpam nimio
plus facunda.]

Haste, holy Friar,
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!
Of all his guilt let him be shriven,
read more

Haste, holy Friar,
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!
Of all his guilt let him be shriven,
And smooth his path from earth to heaven!

But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
read more

But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!