If music be the food of love, play on:

The sad, mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, like coarsest clothes against the cold.

And all those swearings keep, as true in soul as doth that orbed continent the fire that severs day from night.

For words, like Nature, half reveal, and half conceal the Soul within.

We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will.

I sometimes feel it half a sin to put in words the grief I feel.

Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.

O time, thou must untangle this, not I.

It is too hard a knot for me t’untie.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.