Spirits Are Not Finely Touched But To

Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma Or A Hideous Dream.

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)

Open Thy Gate Of Mercy, Gracious God, My Soul Flies Through These Wounds To Seek Out Thee.

If I Can Catch Him Once Upon The Hip, I Will Feed Fat The Ancient Grudge I Bear Him.

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.