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 door. Enough, no more.
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
Receiveth as the sea. Nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er.
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.
—Twelfth Night, act 1, scene 1, Shakespeare
artwork by Josephine Wang © 2014
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