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 Wind
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 so e'er,
But falls into Abatement, and low Price,
Even in a Minute; so full of Shapes is Fancy,
That it alone is high fantastical.

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 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? 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 heat,
Shall not behold her Face at ample View;
But like a Cloystress she will vailed walk,
And water once a Day her Chambers 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 this 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 soveraign 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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