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 oer 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.
—William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, act i, sc i (1601)(Orsino)