He makes a swan-like end, fading in music.

This rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,/ There is no music in the nightingale;/ Unless I look on Silvia in the day,/ There is no day for me to look upon.

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.