William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

HOW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in your 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 behold’st,

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubims.