the motions of his spirit are dull as night,
and his affections dark as Erebus;
let no such man be trusted: mark the m u s i c.
Enter Portia and Nerrissa
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.
Nerrissa: 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
until a King be by, and then his state
empties itself, as doth an inland brook
into the main of waters: m u s i c hark.
Nerrissa: It is your m u s i c Madam of the house?
Portia: The Crow doth s i n g as sweetly as the Lark
when neither is attended: and I think
the Nightingale if she should s i n g by day
when every Goose is c a c k l i n g, would be thought
no better a M u s i c i a n than the Wren?
How many things by season, seasoned are
to their right praise, and true perfection:
Peace, how the moon sleeps with Endymion,
and would not be awaked.
Lorenzo: That is the v o i c e,
or I am much deceived of Portia.
Portia: He knows me as the blind man knows the C u c k o o by the bad v o i c e?
Lorenzo: Dear Lady welcome home?
Portia: We have been praying for our husbands welfare,
which speed we hope the better for our words:
are they returned?
Lorenzo: Madam, they are not yet:
but there is come a Messenger before
to signify their coming?