_Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.---- [_Music._] 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 odours.-- [_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._ 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _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 purged 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. _Enter_ VALENTINE. How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak. _Val._ 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 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!-- Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH. _Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life. _Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. _Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted. _Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. _Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. _Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in here, to be her wooer. _Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? _Mar._ Ay, he. _Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. _Mar._ What's that to the purpose? _Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year. _Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature.