Guest
If music be the food of love, sing on til I am fill’d with joy; For then my list’ning soul you move, to pleasures that can never cloy. Your eyes, your mien, your tongue declare that you are music ev’rywhere. Pleasures invade both eye and ear, so fierce the transports are they wound, And all my senses feasted are, tho’ yet the treat is only sound. Sure I must perish by your charms unless you save me in your arms.
