Why all’s so quiet. Sweet peace, thou dost lie.
Men steal forth silently to kill: they creep,
That they may spring to murder. Who would think,
Gazing on this fair garden, as it lieth
Lulled by the moonlight and the solemn music
Made everlastingly by the grave sea,
That ’twas a hell of villany, a dungeon
Of death to its possessors. Death.—
Za. (re-entering). Here is thy cloak.