If music be the food of love,
play on;
Give me excess of it, that
The apetite may sicken and so
… die.
That strain again! It had a dying
O, it came o’er my ear like the
sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of
Stealing and giving odor.
Enough, no more.
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was
O spirit of love, how quick
and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy
Receiveth as the sea, naught
enters there,
Of what validity and pitch
But falls into abatement and
low price
Even in a minute. So full of
shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical…
O, when mine eyes did see
Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air
of pestilence.
That instant was I turned into a
And my desires, like fell and
cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.
~ William Shakespeare
“Twelfth Night”





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