ACT V SCENE I. BELMONT. AVENUE TO PORTIA'S HOUSE. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. Lor. The moon shines bright:-In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, Jes. In such a night, Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew; Lor. In such a night, Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her love To come again to Carthage. Jes. Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old son. Lor. In such a night, In such a night, Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew; And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, As far as Belmont. Jes. And 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. Lor. And in such a night, Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter a Servant. Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? Serv. A friend. Lor. A friend? what friend? your name, I pray you, friend? Sero. 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? Sero. 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 hear'd 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. Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola! Lor. Who calls? Laun. Sola! did you see master Lorenzo, and mistress Lorenzo! sola, sola! Lor. Leave hollaing, 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. [Erit. Lor. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter;-Why should we go in? [Exit Sercant. How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of musick Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: Look, how the floor of heaven Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubims: 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; Jes. I am never merry, when I hear sweet musick. [Musick. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive: For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the musick. Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance. 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: Until a king be by; and then his state Ner. It is your musick, 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, hoa! the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak'd! [Musick 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 telltales, madam; fear you not. |