Singing

Prince
Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.
Balthasar
O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
Prince
It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection.
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
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Orsino
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.—
Mark it, Cesario. It is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun
And the free maids that weave their thread with
bones
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
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Servant
O, master, if you did but hear the peddler at
the door, you would never dance again after a tabor
and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He
sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money. He
utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men’s
ears grew to his tunes.
Shepherd’s Son
He could never come better.
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