If music be the food of love,
play on;
Give me excess of it, that
surfeiting,
The apetite may sicken and so
… die.
That strain again! It had a dying
fall;
O, it came o’er my ear like the
sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of
violets,
Stealing and giving odor.
Enough, no more.
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was
before.
O spirit of love, how quick
and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy
capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught
enters there,
Of what validity and pitch
soe’er,
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
hart,
And my desires, like fell and
cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.
~ William Shakespeare
“Twelfth Night”

 

 

 

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