|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.
|Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn!|
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with 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 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]|
|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
Unto the 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 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 their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
And would not be awaked.