rest or sleep, but still discourses
of love and music:

_"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 patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou beholdest
But in his motion like an angel sings.
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whil'st this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot have it!
By the sweet power of music; therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods.
Since naught so stockish, hard and full of rage
But music for the time doth change his nature,
The man that hath no music in himself
Nor is not moved 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."_

Portia, Bassanio and friends arrive from the trial of Antonio at Venice,
and at the brilliant home of Belmont all is peace and love.

Bassanio discovers that the young lawyer in disguise was Portia, and she
twits him for giving away his ring to the young advocate, as a recompense
for clearing Antonio from the toils of Shylock; and then she discourses to
her friends about music by night:

_"Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day;
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attuned; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season, seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, there, the moon sleeps with Endymion
And would not be awaked."_
(Music ceases and all retire.)

_Music murmurs through the soul
Hopes of a sweat heavenly goal,
And enchants from pole to pole
While the planets round us roll!_

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SUPERNATURAL. "HAMLET."

_"The time is out of joint; O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right."_

_"Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all."_

Shakspere, in January, 1600, was at the height of