About your brother, was seduced away
By your harp’s pleasant sound and the cool night,
To take a turn in the garden.
Por. Yes, sir, here
I sit, enjoying the cool air that blows
Up from the shore among the whispering leaves.
Luis. What better? but, Porcia, it grows late,
And chilly, I think: and though I’d have you here
Singing like a nightingale the whole night through,
It must not be. Will you come in?