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, naught 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.
Duke Orsino .....in Shakespeare’s .....Twelfth Night