again as low
As hell's from heaven. If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy.

Iago calls the elements to witness his truthfulness:

Witness, you ever-burning lights above,
You elements that clip us round about,
Witness, that here Iago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong'd Othello's service.

Nature is disgusted at Othello's jealousy:

Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth
And will not hear it.

In terrible mental confusion he cries:

O insupportable, O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.

Unhappy Desdemona sings:

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
The fresh streams ran by her and murmur'd her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow.

A song in _Cymbeline_ contains a beautiful personification of
flowers:

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise! Arise!

The clearest expression of sympathy for Nature is in _Macbeth_.

Repeatedly we meet the idea that Nature shudders before the crime,
and gives signs of coming disaster.

Macbeth himself says:

Stars, hide your fires!
Let not light see my black and deep desires;
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

and Lady Macbeth:

... The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.... Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry 'Hold! hold!'...

The peaceful castle to which Duncan comes all unsuspectingly, is in
most striking contrast to the fateful tone which pervades the
tragedy. Duncan says:

This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.

and Banquo:

This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approv