Conscience. Fichte.

THE most reckless Sinner against his own Conscience has always in the background the consolation, that he will go on in this course only this time, or only so long, but that at such a time he will amend. We may be assured that we do not stand clear with our own Consciences, so long as we determine, or project, or even hold it possible, at some future time to alter our course of action.

Conscience.-South.

A PALSY may as well shake an oak, or a fever dry up a fountain, as either of them shake, dry up, or impair the delight of Conscience. For it lies within, it centres in the heart, it grows into the very substance of the soul, so that it accompanies a man to his grave; he never outlives it, and that for this cause only, because he cannot outlive himself.

Conscience. Horace.

NOT even for an hour can you bear to be alone, nor can you advantageously apply your leisure time, but you endeavour, a fugitive and wanderer, to escape from yourself, now vainly seeking to banish Remorse by wine, and now by sleep; but the gloomy companion presses on you, and pursues you as you fly.

Conscience. Shakspeare.
UNNATURAL deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles: Infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
Conscience. — South.

NO man ever offended his own Conscience, but first or last it was revenged upon him for it.

Conscience. Shakspeare.

CONSCIENCE, it makes a man a coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him.

Conscience. — Fuller.

IF thou wouldst be informed what God has written concerning thee in Heaven, look into thine own Bosom, and see what graces he hath there wrought in thee.

Conscience.-S. T. Coleridge. CAN any thing be more dreadful than the Thought, that an innocent child has inherited from you a disease, or a weakness, the penalty in yourself of sin, or want of caution?

Conscience. — Fuller.

A GUILTY Conscience is like a whirlpool, drawing in all to itself which would otherwise pass by.

Conscience. — Shakspeare.

WHO would bear the whips and scorns of Time,

The Oppressor's wrong, the Proud Man's contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law's delay,
The insolence of Office, and the spurns

That patient Merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,-puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus Conscience doth make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of Resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of Thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action.

Conscience. — Mason.

'TIS ever thus

With noble minds, if chance they slide to folly;
Remorse stings deeper, and relentless Conscience,
Pours more of gall into the bitter cup
Of their severe Repentance.

Conscience.-Shakspeare.

TRY what Repentance can. What can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom, black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged!

Conscience. Colton.

TO be satisfied with the Acquittal of the World, though accompanied with the secret Condemnation of Conscience, this is the mark of a little mind; but it requires a soul of no common stamp to be satisfied with its own Acquittal, and to despise the Condemna tion of the World.

Conscience. - Shakspeare.

WHAT stronger breast-plate than a Heart untainted?
Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel,
Whose Conscience with Injustice is corrupted.

Conscience. — Dryden.

HERE, here it lies: a lump of lead by day;
And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,
The hag that rides my dreams.

Conscience. Steele.

THE World will never be in any manner of order or tranquillity, until men are firmly convinced, that Conscience, Honour, and Credit are all in one interest; and that without the concurrence of the former, the latter are but impositions upon ourselves and others.

Conscience.Milton.

HE that has light within his own clear Breast,
May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day:
But he that hides a dark Soul, and foul Thoughts,
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun:
Himself is his own dungeon.

Conscience. Young.

CONSCIENCE, what art thou? thou tremendous power!
Who dost inhabit us without our leave;
And art within ourselves, another self,
A master-self, that loves to domineer,
And treat the monarch frankly as the slave:
How dost thou light a torch to distant deeds?
Make the past, present, and the future frown?
How, ever and anon, awake the soul,

As with a peal of thunder, to strange horrors,
In this long restless dream, which idiots hug,
Nay, wise men flatter with the name of life.

Conscience. Shakspeare.

THOU turn'st mine eyes into my very Soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots,
As will not leave their tinct.

Conscience. — Shakspeare.

BETTER be with the dead,

Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace,
Than on the Torture of the Mind to lie

In restless ecstasy.

Conscience. - Crabbe.

OH! Conscience! Conscience! Man's most faithful friend, Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend:

But if he will thy friendly checks forego,

Thou art, oh! wo for me, his deadliest foe!

Conscience. — Byron.

HORROR and doubt distract His troubled Thoughts, and from the bottom stir The Hell within him; for within him Hell He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell One step no more than from himself can fly By change of place.

Conscience.-Byron.

YET still there whispers the Small Voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din: Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,

Man's Conscience is the oracle of God!

Conscience. — Byron.

THE Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire,

In circle narrowing as it glows,

The flames around their captive close,
Till inly search'd by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,

One and sole relief she knows:
The sting she nourish'd for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain.
So do the dark in Soul expire,

Or live like scorpion girt by fire;

So writhes the Mind Remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for Heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,

Around it flame, within it death!

Conscience.-Shakspeare.

I FEEL within me

A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet Conscience.

Conscience.- Shakspeare.

My Conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a Villain.

Conscience. Byron.

THERE is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd
He deals on his own soul.

Consciousness. — Bruyere. TO feel the want of reason is next to having it; an idiot is not capable of this sensation. The best thing next to wit is a Consciousness that it is not in us; without wit, a man might then know how to behave himself, so as not to appear to be a fool or a coxcomb.

Consequences.- Colton.

AS the dimensions of the tree are not always regulated by the size of the seed, so the Consequences of things are not always proportionate to the apparent magnitude of those events that have produced them. Thus, the American Revolution, from which little was expected, produced much; but the French Revolution, from which much was expected, produced little.

Consolation. — Rousseau.

CONSOLATION indiscreetly pressed upon us, when we are suffering under affliction, only serves to increase our pain, and to render our grief more poignant.

Conspiracy. — Shakspeare.

O CONSPIRACY!

Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,
When evils are most free? O, then, by day,

Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough

To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy;
Hide it in smiles and affability.

Contemplation. — Burnet.

THERE is no lasting pleasure but Contemplation; all others grow flat and insipid upon frequent use; and when a man hath run through a set of vanities, in the declension of his age, he knows not what to do with himself, if he cannot think: he saunters about from one dull business to another, to wear out time; and hath no reason to value Life but because he is afraid of Death.

And not for reptiles-we have none for Steno,
And no resentment; things like him must sting,
And higher beings suffer: 'tis the charter
Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang
May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger:
'Twas the worm's nature; and some men are worms
In soul more than the living things of tombs.