Act 1: Scene 1-Twelfth Night
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- If music be the food of love, play on.Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken and so die.
- 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 capacityReceiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
- O, she that hath a heart of that fine frameTo pay this debt of love but to a brother,How will she love when the rich golden shaftHath killed the flock of all affections elseThat live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and filledHer sweet perfections with one self king!Away before me to sweet beds of flowers!Love thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
- So please my lord, I might not be admittedBut from her handmaid do return this answer:The element itself, till seven years’ heat,Shall not behold her face at ample view,like a cloistress she will veilèd walk,And water once a day her chamber round. With eye-offending brine—all this to season.A brother’s dead love, which she would keep freshAnd lasting in her sademembrance.
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