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...
Twelfth night. Winter's tale - Página 5
por William Shakespeare - 1788
Visualização integral -