Twelfth Night; Or What You Will

DUKE. If music be the food of love play on Give me excess of it that surfeiting The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again! It had a dying fall; O it came oer my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets Stealing and giving odour! 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 nought enters there Of what validity and pitch soeer But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.