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.
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