Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 1

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 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 soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical.

If music is the food of love, keep playing. Give me too much of it, so that my appetite, overfed, may sicken and die. That tune again — it had a dying close. Oh, it passed over my ear like the sweet breeze that breathes on a bank of violets, stealing scent and giving it. Enough, no more. It isn't as sweet now as it was before. Oh, spirit of love, how lively and hungry you are! Even though you can hold as much as the sea, nothing enters you, however valuable and high in worth, that doesn't lose value and sink in price within a minute. Love is so full of shifting images that it alone is supremely imaginative.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

Will you go hunting, my lord?

What, Curio?

Hunt what, Curio?

The hart.

The deer.

Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her?

That's just what I'm doing — hunting the noblest deer I have. Oh, when my eyes first saw Olivia, I thought she cleansed the air of disease. That moment I was turned into a deer myself, and my desires, like savage and cruel hounds, have chased me ever since. What now? What news from her?

So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled 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 fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance.

If it please my lord, I was not allowed in, but her maid sends back this answer: the sky itself, until seven summers have passed, shall not see her face uncovered. She will walk veiled like a nun, and once a day she will soak her room with stinging tears — all this to preserve her dead brother's love, which she wants to keep fresh and lasting in her sorrowful memory.

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

Oh, if she has a heart so finely made that she pays this debt of love merely to a brother, how she will love when the rich golden arrow has killed off the whole flock of every other affection living in her; when liver, brain, and heart — those ruling thrones — are all occupied and filled, all her sweet perfections given to one single king! Go on ahead of me to sweet beds of flowers; thoughts of love lie in luxury under a canopy of leafy branches.