If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.
My stars shine darkly over me
The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.