Original
Modern English
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 sound, 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 soe’er, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
If music is the food of love, keep playing; Give me more of it, until I’m so full That the craving fades and dies. Play that tune again! It had a sad ending: Oh, it came to my ear like a sweet sound, Like the scent of violets, Stealing in and out with fragrance! Enough; no more: It’s not as sweet now as it was before. Oh, spirit of love! how quick and fresh you are, Even though you take in everything, Just like the sea, nothing can enter there Without losing its value, falling lower In importance, even in a minute: so full of variety is the imagination That it alone is wildly fantastical.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
Would you like to go hunting, my lord?
What, Curio?
What, Curio?
The hart.
The stag.
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.
Oh, I do hunt the noblest creature I know: When I first saw Olivia, I thought she drove away the plague! At that moment, I was turned into a stag; And my desires, like fierce and cruel hounds, Have been chasing me ever since.
How now! what news from her?
What’s the news? Did she send any word?
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.
My lord, I wasn’t allowed to meet with her; But I bring you this message from her handmaid: The sun itself, until it’s hot for seven years, Shall not see her face clearly; Instead, like a nun, she’ll walk around veiled And once a day, she’ll walk through her room, Crying bitter tears: all this to honor The love of her dead brother, which she wants to keep alive And fresh in her sad memory.
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; when liver, brain and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
Oh, a woman with a heart so fine To give such love to a brother, How will she love when the rich golden arrow Has killed off every other feeling she has For anyone else? When her liver, brain, and heart, These royal thrones, are all filled up, With one single love that rules over them all! Go ahead of me to sweet, flowery beds: Love thoughts bloom best when they’re surrounded by shade.