Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.