all days in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not know the lady’s mind. Uneven is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my cell till Romeo come. Poor living corse, clos’d in my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of him, It is ‘music with her silver sound’— Why ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, Hugh Rebeck? SECOND MUSICIAN. Pray you put up our pipes and be gone. NURSE. Honest good fellows, ah,