So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
I have drunk and seen the spider.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.