Portia
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended, 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 season’d are
To their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
And would not be awaked.
Music ceases.
Lorenzo
That is the voice,
Or I am much deceived, of Portia.
Portia
He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,