Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

More from Mariage à la Mode. Act ii. Sc. 1.

• Death in itself is nothing; but we fear To be we know not what, we know not where.
• Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,-- Sweet is pleasure after pain.