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D. Pedro.

Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks—

Note notes, forsooth, and nothing.

[Air.]

Bene. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravish’d! Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money when all’s done.

The Song

[Balth.]

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey nonny nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so, etc.

D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song.

Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.

D. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith, thou sing’st well enough for a shift.

Bene. And he had been a dog that should have howl’d thus, they would have hang’d him, and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as live have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.