LAUNCELET.
Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola!
LORENZO.
Leave holloaing, man. Here!
LAUNCELET.
Sola! Where, where?
LORENZO.
Here!
LAUNCELET.
Tell him there’s a post come from my master with his horn full of good news. My master will be here ere morning.
[Exit.]
LORENZO.
Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming.
And yet no matter; why should we go in?
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand,
And bring your music forth into the air.
[Exit Stephano.]
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold.
There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls,
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians.