THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. William Shakespeare

himself,

       And ran dismay’d away.

       LORENZO.

       In such a night

       Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

       Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love

       To come again to Carthage.

       JESSICA.

       In such a night

       Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs

       That did renew old AEson.

       LORENZO.

       In such a night

       Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

       And with an unthrift love did run from Venice

       As far as Belmont.

       JESSICA.

       In such a night

       Did young Lorenzo swear he lov’d her well,

       Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,—

       And ne’er a true one.

       LORENZO.

       In such a night

       Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

       Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

       JESSICA.

       I would out-night you, did no body come;

       But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

       [Enter STEPHANO.]

       LORENZO.

       Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

       STEPHANO.

       A friend.

       LORENZO.

       A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend?

       STEPHANO.

       Stephano is my name, and I bring word

       My mistress will before the break of day

       Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about

       By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays

       For happy wedlock hours.

       LORENZO.

       Who comes with her?

       STEPHANO.

       None but a holy hermit and her maid.

       I pray you, is my master yet return’d?

       LORENZO.

       He is not, nor we have not heard from him.

       But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,

       And ceremoniously let us prepare

       Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

       [Enter LAUNCELOT.]

       LAUNCELOT. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

       LORENZO.

       Who calls?

       LAUNCELOT.

       Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola!

       LORENZO.

       Leave holloaing, man. Here!

       LAUNCELOT.

       Sola! Where? where?

       LORENZO.

       Here!

       LAUNCELOT. Tell him there’s a post come from my master with his horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning.

       [Exit]

       LORENZO.

       Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming.

       And yet no matter; why should we go in?

       My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,

       Within the house, your mistress is at hand;

       And bring your music forth into the air.

       [Exit STEPHANO.]

       How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

       Here will we sit and let the sounds of music

       Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night

       Become the touches of sweet harmony.

       Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven

       Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

       There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st

       But in his motion like an angel sings,

       Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

       Such harmony is in immortal souls;

       But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

       Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

       [Enter Musicians.]

       Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn;

       With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear.

       And draw her home with music.

       [Music.]

       JESSICA.

       I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

       LORENZO.

       The reason is, your spirits are attentive;

       For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

       Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

       Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,

       Which is the hot condition of their blood;

       If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,

       Or any air of music touch their ears,

       You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,

       Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze

       By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet

       Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;

       Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,

       But music for the time doth change his nature.

       The man that hath no music in himself,

       Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,

       Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

       The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

       And his affections dark as Erebus.

       Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

       [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.]

       PORTIA.

       That light we see is burning in my hall.

       How far that little candle throws his beams!

       So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

       NERISSA.

       When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

       PORTIA.

       So doth the greater glory dim the less:

       A substitute shines brightly as a king

       Until a king be by, and then his state

       Empties itself, as doth an inland brook

       Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

       NERISSA.

       It is your music, madam, of the house.

       PORTIA.

       Nothing is good, I see, without respect:

       Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

       NERISSA.

       Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

       PORTIA.

       The crow doth sing as sweetly as