And in the morning early will we both Re-enter Portia and Neriffa. [Exeunt. Por. Enquire the Jew's house out, give him this And let him fign it; we'll away to night, Enter Gratiano. Gra. Fair Sir, you are well o'erta'en: Hath fent you here this ring, and doth intreat Por. That cannot be. This ring I do accept most thankfully, And fo, I pray you, tell him; furthermore, I pray you, fhew my Youth old Shylock's houfe. Ner. Sir, I would fpeak with you. I'll fee if I can get my husband's ring: [To Por. f Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. fwearing, We shall have old That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll out-face them, and out-swear them too: Away, make hafte, thou know'ft. where I will tarry. Ner. Come, good Sir, will you fhew me to this house ? [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. BEL M ON T. A Grove, or green Place, before Portia's House. Enter Lorenzo and Jeffica. LORENZO. HE moon fhines bright: In fuch a night as THE this, When the sweet wind did gently kifs the trees, Jef. In fuch a night, Did Thisbe fearfully o'er-trip the dew; Lor. In fuch a night, Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Jef. In fuch a night, Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs, Lor. In fuch a night, Did Jeffica fteal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, Jef. And in fuch a night, Did young Lorenzo fwear, he lov'd her well; Lor. And in fuch a night, Did pretty Jeffica, (like a little shrew) Jef. I would out-night you, did no body come: But hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter Stephano. Lor. Who comes so fast, in filence of the night? Mef. A friend. Lor. What friend? your name, I pray you, friend? Be here at Belmont: she doth ftray about I Lor. Who comes with her? Mef. None, but a holy hermit, and her maid. pray you, is my mafter yet return'd? Lor. He is not, nor have we yet heard from him: But go we in, I pray thee, Jeffica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the miftrefs of the house. Enter Launcelot. Laun. Sola, fola, wo ha, ho, fola, fola! Lor. Who calls? Laun. Sola! did you see mafter Lorenzo and mistress Lorenza? fola, fola! 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. Lor. Sweet love, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter: why fhould we go in? [Exit Stephano. And And bring your mufic forth into the air. How sweet the moon-light fleeps upon this bank! Jef. I'm never merry, when I hear sweet mufic. Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, (Which is the hot condition of their blood) If they perchance but hear a trumpet found, any with patterns of bright gold] We fhould read Patens: a round broad Plate of Gold born in Heraldry: The cover of the Sacramental-Cup. + Such harmony is in immortal fouls;] But the Harmony here described is that of the Spheres, fo much celebrated by the Ancients. He fays, the fmalleft Orb fings like an Angel; and then fubjoins, such Harmony is in immortal Souls: But the Harmony of Angels is not here meant, but of the Orbs. Nor are we to think, that here the Poet alludes to the Notion, that each Orb has its Intelligence or Angel to direct it; for then with no Propriety could he fay, the Orb fung like an Angel: He should rather have faid, the Angel in the Orb fung. We muft therefore correct the Line thus ; Such harmony is in immortal sounds : i. e. in the Mufic of the Spheres. You You shall perceive them make a mutual stand; By the fweet power of mufic. Therefore, the Poet Let no such man be trufted-Mark the music. Enter Portia and Neriffa. Por. That light we fee, is burning in my hall: Ner. When the moon fhone, we did not fee the candle. Por. So doth the greater glory dim the lefs; [Mufic. Ner. It is the mufic, Madam, of your house. Por. Nothing is good, I fee, without respect : Methinks, it founds much fweeter than by day. Ner. Silence beftows the virtue on it, Madam. Por. The crow doth fing as fweetly as the lark, When neither is attended; and, I think, The nightingale, if she should fing by day, When every goofe is cackling, would be thought No better a mufician than the wren. How many things by feafon feafon'd are To their right praise, and true perfection? Peace! how the moon fleeps with Endimion, And would not be awaked! [Mufic ceafes. Lor. |