Twelfth Night: Act 1, Scene 2

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 south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more,
’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
What, Curio?
The hart.
Why, so I do,
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
That instant was I turned into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.
What news from her?
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself till seven years’ heat
Shall not behold her face at ample view,
But like a cloistress she will veilèd walk—
all this to season
A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.
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 killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Flowers?
Flowers!
Flowers!
Flowers!
Flowers!
love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.