2 Shakespeare-Songs

Lorenzo:
 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.
 Look, how the floor of heaven
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
 There's not the smallest orb that 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.
 Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
 And draw her home with music.

Jessica:
 I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
 
Lorenzo:
 The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
 The man that hath no music in himself,
 Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
 And his affections dark as Erebus:
 Let no such man be trusted... Music! hark!

Nerissa:
 It is your music of the house.

Portia:
 Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Nerissa:
 Silence bestows that virtue on it.

Portia:
 How many things by season season'd are.
 To their right praise and true perfection!
 Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion,
 And would not be awak'd.

 (Soft stillness and the night
 Become the touches of sweet harmony.)

                         Music do I  hear?
Ha, ha, keep time! How sour sweet music is
When time is broke and no proportion kept.
So is it in the music of men’s lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To check time broke in a disordered string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numb’ring clock.
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,
Is pointing still in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound that tells what hour it is
Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell. So sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours. But my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his jack of the clock.
This music mads me. Let it sound no more,
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me,
For ’tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.