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If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
That appetite may sicken and die (I.i)
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers.
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
(I.i)
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. (I.ii)