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 their right praise and true perfection!
Peace ho! the Moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awak’d.
[Music ceases.]
Lor.
That is the voice,
Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia.
Por.
He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
By the bad voice!
Lor.
Dear lady, welcome home!
Por.
We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare,
Which speed we hope the better for our words.
Are they return’d?
Lor.
Madam, they are not yet;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming.
Por.
Go in, Nerissa.
Give order to my servants that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence—
Nor you, Lorenzo—Jessica, nor you.
[A tucket sounds.]
Lor.
Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet.
We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not.
Por.
This night methinks is but the daylight sick,
It
