The Complete Works of Shakespeare. William Shakespeare

       Lor.

      In such a night

      Did pretty Jessica (like a little shrow)

      Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

       Jes.

      I would out-night you, did nobody come;

      But hark, I hear the footing of a man.

       Enter a Messenger.

       Lor.

      Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

       Mess.

      A friend.

       Lor.

      A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?

       Mess.

      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.

       Lor.

      Who comes with her?

       Mess.

      None but a holy hermit and her maid.

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

       Lor.

      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 Clown [Launcelot].

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

      Lor. Who calls?

      Laun. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!

      Lor. Leave hollowing, man—here.

      Laun. Sola! where, where?

      Lor. Here!

      Laun. 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.]

       Lor.

      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 Messenger.]

      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 patens 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-ey’d 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.

       Play Music.

       Jes.

      I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

       Lor.

      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 moved 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.

       Por.

      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.

       Ner.

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

       Por.

      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!

       Ner.

      It is your music, madam, of the house.

       Por.

      Nothing is good, I see, without respect;

      Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

       Ner.

      Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

       Por.

      The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark

      When neither is attended; and I think

      The nightingale, if she should sing by day

      When every goose is cackling, would be thought

      No better a musician than the wren.

      How many things by season season’d are

      To