Act V, Scene I — A public place near the city gate…

Act V, Scene I — A public place near the city gate

Enter at several doors Duke, Varrius, Lords; Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers and Citizens.

DUKE. My very worthy cousin, fairly met. Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

ANGELO and ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal grace!

DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital.

ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater.

DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud, and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves with characters of brass A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand. And good supporters are you.

Enter Friar Peter and Isabella.

FRIAR PETER. Now is your time. Speak loud, and kneel before him.

ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wronged—I would fain have said, a maid. O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!

DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice. Reveal yourself to him.

ISABELLA. O worthy Duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil. Hear me yourself, for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believed, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here!

ANGELO. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm. She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, Cut off by course of justice.

ISABELLA. By course of justice!

ANGELO. And she will speak most bitterly and strange.

ISABELLA. Most strange, but yet most truly will I speak. That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange? That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange? That Angelo is an adulterous thief, An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, Is it not strange and strange?

DUKE. Nay, it is ten times strange.

ISABELLA. It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange. Nay, it is ten times true, for truth is truth To th’ end of reckoning.

DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul, She speaks this in th’ infirmity of sense.

ISABELLA. O Prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not with that opinion That I am touched with madness. Make not impossible That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not impossible But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince, If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more, Had I more name for badness.

DUKE. By mine honesty, If she be mad, as I believe no other, Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing, As e’er I heard in madness.

ISABELLA. O gracious Duke, Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true.

DUKE. Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?

ISABELLA. I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemned upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemned by Angelo. I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio As then the messenger.

LUCIO. That’s I, an’t like your Grace. I came to her from Claudio and desired her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother’s pardon.

ISABELLA. That’s he, indeed.

DUKE. You were not bid to speak.

LUCIO. No, my good lord, Nor wished to hold my peace.

DUKE. I wish you now, then; Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect.

LUCIO. I warrant your honour.

DUKE. The warrant’s for yourself. Take heed to it.

ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.

LUCIO. Right.

DUKE. It may be right, but you are i’ the wrong To speak before your time.—Proceed.

ISABELLA. I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy.

DUKE. That’s somewhat madly spoken.

ISABELLA. Pardon it; The phrase is to the matter.

DUKE. Mended again. The matter; proceed.

ISABELLA. In brief, to set the needless process by: How I persuaded, how I prayed and kneeled, How he refelled me, and how I replied— For this was of much length—the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother’s head.

DUKE. This is most likely!

ISABELLA. O, that it were as like as it is true!

DUKE. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st not what thou speak’st, Or else thou art suborned against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weighed thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Someone hath set you on. Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou cam’st here to complain.

ISABELLA. And is this all? Then, O you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience, and with ripened time Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe, As I, thus wronged, hence unbelieved go.

DUKE. I know you’d fain be gone. An officer! To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. Who knew of your intent and coming hither?

ISABELLA. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

[Exeunt Officer with Isabella.]

DUKE. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

LUCIO. My lord, I know him. ’Tis a meddling friar. I do not like the man. Had he been lay, my lord, For certain words he spake against your Grace In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly.

DUKE. Words against me? This’s a good friar, belike. And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.

LUCIO. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison. A saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow.

FRIAR PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First hath this woman Most wrongfully accused your substitute, Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot.

DUKE. We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

FRIAR PETER. I know him for a man divine and holy, Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he’s reported by this gentleman; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace.

LUCIO. My lord, most villainously; believe it.

FRIAR PETER. Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick, my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he with his oath And all probation will make up full clear Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman, To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it.

DUKE. Good friar, let’s hear it. Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo? O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! Give us some seats.—Come, cousin Angelo, In this I’ll be impartial. Be you judge Of your own cause.

Enter Mariana, veiled.

Is this the witness, friar? First let her show her face, and after speak.

MARIANA. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me.

DUKE. What, are you married?

MARIANA. No, my lord.

DUKE. Are you a maid?

MARIANA. No, my lord.

DUKE. A widow, then?

MARIANA. Neither, my lord.

DUKE. Why, you are nothing then, neither maid, widow, nor wife?

LUCIO. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.

DUKE. Silence that fellow. I would he had some cause to prattle for himself.

LUCIO. Well, my lord.

MARIANA. My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married, And I confess besides, I am no maid. I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me.

LUCIO. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better.

DUKE. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too.

LUCIO. Well, my lord.

DUKE. This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

MARIANA. Now I come to’t, my lord. She that accuses him of fornication In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I’ll depose I had him in mine arms With all th’ effect of love.

ANGELO. Charges she more than me?

MARIANA. Not that I know.

DUKE. No? You say your husband.

MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body, But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel’s.

ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [Unveiling.] This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on. This is the hand which, with a vowed contract, Was fast belocked in thine. This is the body That took away the match from Isabel And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined person.

DUKE. Know you this woman?

LUCIO. Carnally, she says.

DUKE. Sirrah, no more.

LUCIO. Enough, my lord.

ANGELO. My lord, I must confess I know this woman; And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition; but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour.

MARIANA. Noble Prince, As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianced this man’s wife as strongly As words could make up vows. And, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone, in’s garden-house, He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument!

ANGELO. I did but smile till now. Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice. My patience here is touched. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out.

DUKE. Ay, with my heart; And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That’s sealed in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence ’tis derived. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for.

FRIAR PETER. Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint. Your Provost knows the place where he abides, And he may fetch him.

DUKE. Go, do it instantly.

[Exit Provost.]

And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best In any chastisement. I for a while Will leave you; but stir not you till you have Well determined upon these slanderers.

ESCALUS. My lord, we’ll do it throughly.

[Exit Duke.]

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?

LUCIO. Cucullus non facit monachum, honest in nothing but in his clothes, and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke.

ESCALUS. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come, and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow.

LUCIO. As any in Vienna, on my word.

ESCALUS. Call that same Isabel here once again. I would speak with her.

[Exit an Attendant.]

Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I’ll handle her.

LUCIO. Not better than he, by her own report.

ESCALUS. Say you?

LUCIO. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess; perchance, publicly, she’ll be ashamed.

Enter at several doors Duke as a friar, Provost and Isabella with Officers.

ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her.

LUCIO. That’s the way; for women are light at midnight.

ESCALUS. [To Isabella.] Come on, mistress, here’s a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.

LUCIO. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of, here with the Provost.

ESCALUS. In very good time. Speak not you to him till we call upon you.

LUCIO. Mum.

ESCALUS. Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? They have confessed you did.

DUKE. ’Tis false.

ESCALUS. How! Know you where you are?

DUKE. Respect to your great place; and let the devil Be sometime honoured for his burning throne. Where is the Duke? ’Tis he should hear me speak.

ESCALUS. The Duke’s in us; and we will hear you speak. Look you speak justly.

DUKE. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox, Good night to your redress! Is the Duke gone? Then is your cause gone too. The Duke’s unjust Thus to retort your manifest appeal, And put your trial in the villain’s mouth Which here you come to accuse.

LUCIO. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.

ESCALUS. Why, thou unreverend and unhallowed friar, Is’t not enough thou hast suborned these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth, And in the witness of his proper ear, To call him villain? And then to glance from him To th’ Duke himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence! To th’ rack with him! We’ll touse you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What! Unjust?

DUKE. Be not so hot. The Duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his own. His subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o’errun the stew. Laws for all faults, But faults so countenanced that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop, As much in mock as mark.

ESCALUS. Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!

ANGELO. What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of?

LUCIO. ’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman Baldpate. Do you know me?

DUKE. I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice. I met you at the prison, in the absence of the Duke.

LUCIO. O did you so? And do you remember what you said of the Duke?

DUKE. Most notedly, sir.

LUCIO. Do you so, sir? And was the Duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?

DUKE. You must, sir, change persons with me ere you make that my report. You indeed spoke so of him, and much more, much worse.

LUCIO. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?

DUKE. I protest I love the Duke as I love myself.

ANGELO. Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!

ESCALUS. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him. Let him speak no more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion!

[The Provost lays hands on the Duke.]

DUKE. Stay, sir, stay a while.

ANGELO. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio.

LUCIO. Come, sir, come, sir, come, sir. Foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal! You must be hooded, must you? Show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off?

[Pulls off the friar’s hood and discovers the Duke.]

DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e’er mad’st a duke. First, Provost, let me bail these gentle three. [To Lucio.] Sneak not away, sir, for the friar and you Must have a word anon.—Lay hold on him.

LUCIO. This may prove worse than hanging.

DUKE. [To Escalus.] What you have spoke I pardon. Sit you down. We’ll borrow place of him. [To Angelo.] Sir, by your leave. Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out.

ANGELO. O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like power divine, Hath looked upon my passes. Then, good Prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession. Immediate sentence then, and sequent death Is all the grace I beg.

DUKE. Come hither, Mariana. Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman?

ANGELO. I was, my lord.

DUKE. Go, take her hence and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar; which consummate, Return him here again.—Go with him, Provost.

[Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost.]

ESCALUS. My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it.

DUKE. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince. As I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorneyed at your service.

ISABELLA. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employed and pained Your unknown sovereignty.

DUKE. You are pardoned, Isabel. And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart, And you may marvel why I obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brained my purpose. But peace be with him. That life is better life, past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear. Make it your comfort, So happy is your brother.

ISABELLA. I do, my lord.

Enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost.

DUKE. For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wronged Your well-defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudged your brother, Being criminal in double violation Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life, The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, “An Angelo for Claudio, death for death.” Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure. Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested, Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage. We do condemn thee to the very block Where Claudio stooped to death, and with like haste. Away with him.

MARIANA. O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

DUKE. It is your husband mocked you with a husband. Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit. Else imputation, For that he knew you, might reproach your life, And choke your good to come. For his possessions, Although by confiscation they are ours, We do instate and widow you with all To buy you a better husband.

MARIANA. O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man.

DUKE. Never crave him; we are definitive.

MARIANA. [Kneeling.] Gentle my liege—

DUKE. You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death. [To Lucio.] Now, sir, to you.

MARIANA. O my good lord.—Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I’ll lend you all my life to do you service.

DUKE. Against all sense you do importune her. Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror.

MARIANA. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing. I’ll speak all. They say best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad. So may my husband. O Isabel, will you not lend a knee?

DUKE. He dies for Claudio’s death.

ISABELLA. [Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemned As if my brother lived. I partly think A due sincerity governed his deeds Till he did look on me. Since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died. For Angelo, His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perished by the way. Thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts.

MARIANA. Merely, my lord.

DUKE. Your suit’s unprofitable. Stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour?

PROVOST. It was commanded so.

DUKE. Had you a special warrant for the deed?

PROVOST. No, my good lord, it was by private message.

DUKE. For which I do discharge you of your office. Give up your keys.

PROVOST. Pardon me, noble lord. I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me after more advice. For testimony whereof, one in the prison That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive.

DUKE. What’s he?

PROVOST. His name is Barnardine.

DUKE. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither, let me look upon him.

[Exit Provost.]

ESCALUS. I am sorry one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appeared, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood And lack of tempered judgement afterward.

ANGELO. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure, And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy; ’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.

Enter Provost with Barnardine, Claudio (muffled) and Juliet.

DUKE. Which is that Barnardine?

PROVOST. This, my lord.

DUKE. There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul That apprehends no further than this world, And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemned; But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that?

PROVOST. This is another prisoner that I saved, Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; As like almost to Claudio as himself.

[Unmuffles Claudio.]

DUKE. [To Isabella.] If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardoned; and for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too. But fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe; Methinks I see a quick’ning in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. Look that you love your wife, her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself. And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon. [To Lucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman. Wherein have I so deserved of you That you extol me thus?

LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may, but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.

DUKE. Whipped first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, If any woman wronged by this lewd fellow, As I have heard him swear himself there’s one Whom he begot with child—let her appear, And he shall marry her. The nuptial finished, Let him be whipped and hanged.

LUCIO. I beseech your Highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now I made you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.

DUKE. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive, and therewithal Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison, And see our pleasure herein executed.

LUCIO. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.

DUKE. Slandering a prince deserves it.

[Exeunt Officers with Lucio.]

She, Claudio, that you wronged, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo. I have confessed her, and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness; There’s more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy; We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s. Th’ offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good; Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline, What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace, where we’ll show What’s yet behind that’s meet you all should know.

[Exeunt.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

Dramatis Personæ

THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELET GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelet LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHAZAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, servant to Portia SALERIO, a messenger from Venice

PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-woman JESSICA, daughter to Shylock

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, a Gaoler, Servants and other Attendants

SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia on the Continent

Act I, Scene I — Venice. A street

Enter Antonio, Salarino and Solanio.

ANTONIO. In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.

SALARINO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean, There where your argosies, with portly sail Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.

SOLANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad.

SALARINO. My wind cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel’s side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad? But tell not me, I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

ANTONIO. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year. Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

SALARINO. Why then you are in love.

ANTONIO. Fie, fie!

SALARINO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and ’twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper. And other of such vinegar aspect That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano.

SOLANIO. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company.

SALARINO. I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.

ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th’ occasion to depart.

SALARINO. Good morrow, my good lords.

BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?

SALARINO. We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio.]

LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you, but at dinner-time I pray you have in mind where we must meet.

BASSANIO. I will not fail you.

GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio, You have too much respect upon the world. They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d.

ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.

GRATIANO. Let me play the fool, With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, (I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks): There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.” O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while. I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.

LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak.

GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

ANTONIO. Fare you well. I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

GRATIANO. Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.

[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.]

ANTONIO. Is that anything now?

BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.

ANTONIO. Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you today promis’d to tell me of?

BASSANIO. ’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance. Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d From such a noble rate, but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio, I owe the most in money and in love, And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

ANTONIO. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur’d My purse, my person, my extremest means Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.

BASSANIO. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch To find the other forth; and by adventuring both I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost. But if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both, Or bring your latter hazard back again, And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it. Therefore, speak.

BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu’d To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate.

ANTONIO. Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum, therefore go forth Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack’d even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene II — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house

Enter Portia with her waiting-woman Nerissa.

PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounc’d.

NERISSA. They would be better if well followed.

PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word “choose”! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike, so is the will of a living daughter curb’d by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?

NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations. Therefore the lott’ry that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them, and according to my description level at my affection.

NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

PORTIA. Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse, and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother play’d false with a smith.

NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine.

PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say “And you will not have me, choose.” He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is every man in no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight a-cap’ring. He will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.

NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man’s picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.

NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and seal’d under for another.

NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew?

PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. And the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him.

PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.

NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords. They have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father’s imposition, depending on the caskets.

PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence. And I pray God grant them a fair departure.

NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, as I think, so was he call’d.

NERISSA. True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look’d upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

Enter a Servingman.

How now! what news?

SERVINGMAN. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave. And there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here tonight.

PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach. If he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene III — Venice. A public place

Enter Bassanio with Shylock the Jew.

SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, well.

BASSANIO. Ay, sir, for three months.

SHYLOCK. For three months, well.

BASSANIO. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

SHYLOCK. Antonio shall become bound, well.

BASSANIO. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?

SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.

BASSANIO. Your answer to that.

SHYLOCK. Antonio is a good man.

BASSANIO. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

SHYLOCK. Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves—I mean pirates—and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats. I think I may take his bond.

BASSANIO. Be assured you may.

SHYLOCK. I will be assured I may. And that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us.

SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?

Enter Antonio.

BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio.

SHYLOCK. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him!

BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear?

SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And by the near guess of my memory I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair, good signior, Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I’ll break a custom. [To Bassanio.] Is he yet possess’d How much ye would?

SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

ANTONIO. And for three months.

SHYLOCK. I had forgot, three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond. And let me see, but hear you, Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage.

ANTONIO. I do never use it.

SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep,— This Jacob from our holy Abram was As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third.

ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest?

SHYLOCK. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest; mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromis’d That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes being rank In end of autumn turned to the rams, And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd pill’d me certain wands, And in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who then conceiving did in eaning time Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing if men steal it not.

ANTONIO. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for, A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

SHYLOCK. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. But note me, signior.

ANTONIO. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, ’tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.

ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances. Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, (For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe.) You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to, then, you come to me, and you say “Shylock, we would have moneys.” You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold, moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say “Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: “Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys”?

ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends, for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty.

SHYLOCK. Why, look you how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me, This is kind I offer.

BASSANIO. This were kindness.

SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond; and in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me.

ANTONIO. Content, in faith, I’ll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, I’ll rather dwell in my necessity.

ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man, I will not forfeit it, Within these two months, that’s a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this, If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man, Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship. If he will take it, so. If not, adieu, And for my love I pray you wrong me not.

ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s, Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I’ll be with you.

ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew.

[Exit Shylock.]

This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.

BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.

ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene I — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa and their train.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phœbus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes; Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. But if my father had not scanted me And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look’d on yet For my affection.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you. Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his rage, And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.

PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage. Therefore be advis’d.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

PORTIA. First, forward to the temple. After dinner Your hazard shall be made.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then, To make me blest or cursed’st among men!

[Cornets. Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene II — Venice. A street

Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone.

LAUNCELET. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me “Gobbo, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says “No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” says the fiend, “away!” says the fiend. “For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me “My honest friend Launcelet, being an honest man’s son”—or rather an honest woman’s son, for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;—well, my conscience says “Launcelet, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will run.

Enter Old Gobbo with a basket.

GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew’s?

LAUNCELET. [Aside.] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him.

GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?

LAUNCELET. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.

GOBBO. Be God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

LAUNCELET. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [Aside.] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet?

GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son, his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.

LAUNCELET. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launcelet.

GOBBO. Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir.

LAUNCELET. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelet?

GOBBO. Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership.

LAUNCELET. Ergo, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, father, for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies, and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.

LAUNCELET. [Aside.] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?

GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman, but I pray you tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?

LAUNCELET. Do you not know me, father?

GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.

LAUNCELET. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing, truth will come to light, murder cannot be hid long, a man’s son may, but in the end truth will out.

GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Launcelet my boy.

LAUNCELET. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son.

LAUNCELET. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, the Jew’s man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed. I’ll be sworn if thou be Launcelet, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.

LAUNCELET. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward. I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him.

GOBBO. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

LAUNCELET. Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

Enter Bassanio with Leonardo and a follower or two.

BASSANIO. You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

[Exit a Servant.]

LAUNCELET. To him, father.

GOBBO. God bless your worship!

BASSANIO. Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me?

GOBBO. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy.

LAUNCELET. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify.

GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve.

LAUNCELET. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify.

GOBBO. His master and he (saving your worship’s reverence) are scarce cater-cousins.

LAUNCELET. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you.

GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is—

LAUNCELET. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man, and though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you?

LAUNCELET. Serve you, sir.

GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew’s service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman.

LAUNCELET. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have “the grace of God”, sir, and he hath “enough”.

BASSANIO. Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a Servant.] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows’; see it done.

LAUNCELET. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm.] Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune; go to, here’s a simple line of life. Here’s a small trifle of wives, alas, fifteen wives is nothing; eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple ’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.

[Exeunt Launcelet and Old Gobbo.]

BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestow’d, Return in haste, for I do feast tonight My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go.

LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter Gratiano.

GRATIANO. Where’s your master?

LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks.

[Exit.]

GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio!

BASSANIO. Gratiano!

GRATIANO. I have suit to you.

BASSANIO. You have obtain’d it.

GRATIANO. You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont.

BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano, Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice, Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconst’red in the place I go to, And lose my hopes.

GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me. If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say “amen”; Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more.

BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing.

GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me By what we do tonight.

BASSANIO. No, that were pity. I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well, I have some business.

GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest, But we will visit you at supper-time.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene III — The same. A room in Shylock’s house

Enter Jessica and Launcelet.

JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee, And, Launcelet, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest. Give him this letter, do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee.

LAUNCELET. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit. Adieu!

JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelet.

[Exit Launcelet.]

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father’s child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

[Exit.]

Act II, Scene IV — The same. A street

Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino and Solanio.

LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour.

GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation.

SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.

SOLANIO. ’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d, And better in my mind not undertook.

LORENZO. ’Tis now but four o’clock, we have two hours To furnish us.

Enter Launcelet with a letter.

Friend Launcelet, what’s the news?

LAUNCELET. And it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.

LORENZO. I know the hand, in faith ’tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ.

GRATIANO. Love news, in faith.

LAUNCELET. By your leave, sir.

LORENZO. Whither goest thou?

LAUNCELET. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight with my new master the Christian.

LORENZO. Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her, speak it privately. Go, gentlemen,

[Exit Launcelet.]

Will you prepare you for this masque tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer.

SALARINO. Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.

SOLANIO. And so will I.

LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

SALARINO. ’Tis good we do so.

[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio.]

GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father’s house, What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with, What page’s suit she hath in readiness. If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene V — The same. Before Shylock’s house

Enter Shylock the Jew and Launcelet his man that was the clown.

SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.— What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!— And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out. Why, Jessica, I say!

LAUNCELET. Why, Jessica!

SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

LAUNCELET. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding.

Enter Jessica.

JESSICA. Call you? What is your will?

SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love, they flatter me. But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags tonight.

LAUNCELET. I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach.

SHYLOCK. So do I his.

LAUNCELET. And they have conspired together. I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o’clock i’ th’ morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in th’ afternoon.

SHYLOCK. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica, Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces, But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements. Let not the sound of shallow fopp’ry enter My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear I have no mind of feasting forth tonight. But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah. Say I will come.

LAUNCELET. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this. There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess’ eye.

[Exit Launcelet.]

SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha?

JESSICA. His words were “Farewell, mistress,” nothing else.

SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder, Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him, and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in. Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you, shut doors after you, “Fast bind, fast find.” A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[Exit.]

JESSICA. Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[Exit.]

Act II, Scene VI — The same

Enter the masquers, Gratiano and Salarino.

GRATIANO. This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand.

SALARINO. His hour is almost past.

GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock.

SALARINO. O ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. How like a younger or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Enter Lorenzo.

SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter.

LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode. Not I but my affairs have made you wait. When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach. Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes.

JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.

LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love.

JESSICA. Lorenzo certain, and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham’d of my exchange. But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.

LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.

JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur’d.

LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once, For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast.

JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.

[Exit above.]

GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew.

LORENZO. Beshrew me but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself. And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

Enter Jessica.

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

[Exit with Jessica and Salarino.]

Enter Antonio.

ANTONIO. Who’s there?

GRATIANO. Signior Antonio!

ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? ’Tis nine o’clock, our friends all stay for you. No masque tonight, the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard. I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

GRATIANO. I am glad on’t. I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone tonight.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene VII — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house

Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains.

PORTIA. Go, draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” The second, silver, which this promise carries, “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” How shall I know if I do choose the right?

PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, prince. If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see. I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” Must give, for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross, I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou be’st rated by thy estimation Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady. And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady: I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here? Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” Why, that’s the lady, all the world desires her. From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spets in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come As o’er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation To think so base a thought. It were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key. Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may.

PORTIA. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours.

[He unlocks the golden casket.]

PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.

_All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told. Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll’d, Fare you well, your suit is cold._

Cold indeed and labour lost, Then farewell heat, and welcome frost. Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heart To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.

[Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.]

PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene VIII — Venice. A street

Enter Salarino and Solanio.

SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

SOLANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the Duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the Duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

SOLANIO. I never heard a passion so confus’d, So strange, outrageous, and so variable As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. “My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl, She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.”

SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

SOLANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day Or he shall pay for this.

SALARINO. Marry, well rememb’red. I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish’d in silence that it were not his.

SOLANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear, Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part, Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answered “Do not so, Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time, And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.” And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio’s hand, and so they parted.

SOLANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other.

SALARINO. Do we so.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene IX — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house

Enter Nerissa and a Servitor.

NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight. The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, And comes to his election presently.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, his train, and Portia.

PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince, If you choose that wherein I am contain’d, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d. But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately.

ARRAGON. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to anyone Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone.

PORTIA. To these injunctions everyone doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

ARRAGON. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” What many men desire! that “many” may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th’ interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house, Tell me once more what title thou dost bear. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare? How many be commanded that command? How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour? And how much honour Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish’d? Well, but to my choice. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

[He opens the silver casket.]

PORTIA. Too long a pause for that which you find there.

ARRAGON. What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! “Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.” Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better?

PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures.

ARRAGON. What is here?

_The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow’s bliss. There be fools alive, I wis, Silver’d o’er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone; you are sped._

Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool’s head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth.

[Exit Arragon with his train.]

PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Where is my lady?

PORTIA. Here. What would my lord?

MESSENGER. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th’ approaching of his lord, From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit (besides commends and courteous breath) Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

PORTIA. No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly.

NERISSA. Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be!

[Exeunt.]

Act III, Scene I — Venice. A street

Enter Solanio and Salarino.

SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto?

SALARINO. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.

SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!—

SALARINO. Come, the full stop.

SOLANIO. Ha, what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.

SALARINO. I would it might prove the end of his losses.

SOLANIO. Let me say “amen” betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

Enter Shylock.

How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants?

SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight.

SALARINO. That’s certain, I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.

SHYLOCK. She is damn’d for it.

SALARINO. That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge.

SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel!

SOLANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?

SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood.

SALARINO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory, more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?

SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto, a beggar that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian cur’sy; let him look to his bond.

SALARINO. Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh! What’s that good for?

SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac’d me and hind’red me half a million, laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

Enter a man from Antonio.

SERVANT. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.

SALARINO. We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter Tubal.

SOLANIO. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be match’d, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

[Exeunt Solanio, Salarino and the Servant.]

SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter?

TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now, I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them? Why so? And I know not what’s spent in the search. Why, thou—loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o’ my shoulders, no sighs but o’ my breathing, no tears but o’ my shedding.

TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa—

SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck?

TUBAL. —hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis.

SHYLOCK. I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true?

TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack.

SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! Ha, ha, heard in Genoa?

TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats.

SHYLOCK. Thou stick’st a dagger in me. I shall never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats!

TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break.

SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it. I’ll plague him, I’ll torture him. I am glad of it.

TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turquoise, I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone.

SHYLOCK. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him if he forfeit, for were he out of Venice I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue. Go, good Tubal, at our synagogue, Tubal.

[Exeunt.]