An apartment in the Duke's palace.
Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords ; Musicians attending,
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:
0, 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 soever,
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 turu'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me. - How now? What news