This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Give me some music; music, moody foodOf us that trade in love.

If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,/ There is no music in the nightingale;/ Unless I look on Silvia in the day,/ There is no day for me to look upon.