They say, there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.
TWELFTH NIGHT.
Act i. Sc. 1.
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 odor.
Act i. Sc, 3.
I am sure care's an enemy to life.
Act i. Sc. 5.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.