“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 o’er my ear like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odour!’ Quack – that Shakespeare knew a thing or six. At least I have plenty of choice... |
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AuthorThe name’s Waddles. Archives
February 2021
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