Readernaut

If music be the fruit 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 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 so'er, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.