You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
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 o’er my ear like the sweet soundThat 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