Duke.
If Musick 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 south,
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 soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute; (1) ^note

Cur.
Will you go hunt, my Lord?

Duke.
What, Curio?

Cur.
The hart.

Duke.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when my 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? Enter Valentine.

Val.
So please my Lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her hand-maid do return this answer:
The element it self, 'till seven years hence,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a Cloystress, 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.

Duke.
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 sov'raign Thrones, are all supply'd, and fill'd,

Her sweet perfections, with one self-same King!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lye rich, when canopy'd with bowers. [Exeunt.

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