Orsino, Duke of Illyria, feeds his love for the Countess Olivia with music and talk of it. Valentine returns from her house with a refusal: Olivia will veil her face and mourn her dead brother for seven years. Orsino, more in love with loving than discouraged by the answer, withdraws to his bower of flowers.
Enter DUKE ORSINO, CURIO, and other Lords; Musicians attending
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.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
What, Curio?
The hart.
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 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 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.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but 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.
Exeunt
Orsino, Duke of Illyria, feeds his love for the Countess Olivia with music and talk of it. Valentine returns from her house with a refusal: Olivia will veil her face and mourn her dead brother for seven years. Orsino, more in love with loving than discouraged by the answer, withdraws to his bower of flowers.