Act III, Scene II — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house
Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa and all their trains.
PORTIA. I pray you tarry, pause a day or two Before you hazard, for in choosing wrong I lose your company; therefore forbear a while. There’s something tells me (but it is not love) I would not lose you, and you know yourself Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well,— And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,— I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn. So will I never be. So may you miss me. But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o’erlook’d me and divided me. One half of me is yours, the other half yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O these naughty times Puts bars between the owners and their rights! And so though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let Fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but ’tis to peise the time, To eche it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election.
BASSANIO. Let me choose, For as I am, I live upon the rack.
PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love.
BASSANIO. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love. There may as well be amity and life ’Tween snow and fire as treason and my love.
PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack Where men enforced do speak anything.
BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth.
PORTIA. Well then, confess and live.
BASSANIO. “Confess and love” Had been the very sum of my confession: O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
PORTIA. Away, then! I am lock’d in one of them. If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. Let music sound while he doth make his choice. Then if he lose he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music. That the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And wat’ry death-bed for him. He may win, And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch. Such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th’ exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray.
A song, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself.
_Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend’red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy’s knell: I’ll begin it.—Ding, dong, bell._
ALL. Ding, dong, bell.
BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves. The world is still deceiv’d with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season’d with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward search’d, have livers white as milk, And these assume but valour’s excrement To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see ’tis purchas’d by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee, Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge ’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten’st than dost promise aught, Thy palenness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I, joy be the consequence!
PORTIA. [Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair, And shudd’ring fear, and green-ey’d jealousy. O love, be moderate; allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing, make it less, For fear I surfeit.
BASSANIO. What find I here? [Opening the leaden casket.] Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath, so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t’entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes!— How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune.
_You that choose not by the view Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas’d with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn to where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss._
A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave, [Kissing her.] I come by note to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no, So, thrice-fair lady, stand I even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you.
PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am; though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich, That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself Are yours,—my lord’s. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you.
BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers As after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude, Where every something being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence. O then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead!
NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady!
GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me. And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too.
BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid. You lov’d, I lov’d; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls. For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, (if promise last) I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev’d her mistress.
PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa?
NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal.
BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord.
BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage.
GRATIANO. We’ll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.
NERISSA. What! and stake down?
GRATIANO. No, we shall ne’er win at that sport and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salerio!
Enter Lorenzo, Jessica and Salerio.
BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new int’rest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome.
PORTIA. So do I, my lord, They are entirely welcome.
LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here, But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along.
SALERIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you.
[Gives Bassanio a letter.]
BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth.
SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind, Nor well, unless in mind. His letter there Will show you his estate.
[Bassanio opens the letter.]
GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger, bid her welcome. Your hand, Salerio. What’s the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success. We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.
SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.
PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper That steals the colour from Bassanio’s cheek. Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse? With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you.
BASSANIO. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman. And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag’d myself to a dear friend, Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks?
SALERIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the Duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The Duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port have all persuaded with him, But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond.
JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him. And I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio.
PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition’d and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies, and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy.
PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew?
BASSANIO. For me three thousand ducats.
PORTIA. What, no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond. Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend. For never shall you lie by Portia’s side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over. When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime, Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend.
BASSANIO. Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear’d between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure. If your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.
PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone!
BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer ’twixt us twain.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene III — Venice. A street
Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio and Gaoler.
SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy. This is the fool that lent out money gratis. Gaoler, look to him.
ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock.
SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond, speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request.
ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak.
SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak. I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more. I’ll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not, I’ll have no speaking, I will have my bond.
[Exit.]
SALARINO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men.
ANTONIO. Let him alone. I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life, his reason well I know: I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me. Therefore he hates me.
SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law, For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, ’Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go. These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh Tomorrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on, pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene IV — Belmont. A room in Portia’s house
Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica and Balthazar.
LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you.
PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit; Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore no more of it. Hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord’s return. For mine own part, I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord’s return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you.
LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in all fair commands.
PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again.
LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!
JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart’s content.
PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas’d To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica.
[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo.]
Now, Balthazar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th’ endeavour of a man In speed to Padua, see thou render this Into my cousin’s hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone. I shall be there before thee.
BALTHAZAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed.
[Exit.]
PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we’ll see our husbands Before they think of us.
NERISSA. Shall they see us?
PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa, but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutered like young men, I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died; I could not do withal. Then I’ll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not kill’d them. And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise.
NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men?
PORTIA. Fie, what a question’s that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I’ll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles today.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene V — The same. A garden
Enter Launcelet and Jessica.
LAUNCELET. Yes, truly, for look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children, therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter. Therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn’d. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee?
LAUNCELET. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew’s daughter.
JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.
LAUNCELET. Truly then I fear you are damn’d both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla your father, I fall into Charybdis your mother. Well, you are gone both ways.
JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband. He hath made me a Christian.
LAUNCELET. Truly the more to blame he, we were Christians enow before, e’en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.
Enter Lorenzo.
JESSICA. I’ll tell my husband, Launcelet, what you say. Here he comes.
LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelet, if you thus get my wife into corners!
JESSICA. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo. Launcelet and I are out. He tells me flatly there’s no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork.
LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly! The Moor is with child by you, Launcelet.
LAUNCELET. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for.
LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.
LAUNCELET. That is done, sir, they have all stomachs.
LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner.
LAUNCELET. That is done too, sir, only “cover” is the word.
LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir?
LAUNCELET. Not so, sir, neither. I know my duty.
LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.
LAUNCELET. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.
[Exit.]
LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words, and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife?
JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth, And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow.
LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
LORENZO. I will anon. First let us go to dinner.
JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.
LORENZO. No pray thee, let it serve for table-talk. Then howsome’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things I shall digest it.
JESSICA. Well, I’ll set you forth.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene I — Venice. A court of justice
Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio and others.
DUKE. What, is Antonio here?
ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace.
DUKE. I am sorry for thee, thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy.
ANTONIO. I have heard Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm’d To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his.
DUKE. Go one and call the Jew into the court.
SALARINO. He is ready at the door. He comes, my lord.
Enter Shylock.
DUKE. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act, and then, ’tis thought, Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exacts the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch’d with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal, Glancing an eye of pity on his losses That have of late so huddled on his back, Enow to press a royal merchant down, And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars never train’d To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
SHYLOCK. I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose, And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city’s freedom! You’ll ask me why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats. I’ll not answer that, But say it is my humour. Is it answer’d? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose, Cannot contain their urine; for affection Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be render’d Why he cannot abide a gaping pig, Why he a harmless necessary cat, Why he a woollen bagpipe, but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended, So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answered?
BASSANIO. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
SHYLOCK. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
BASSANIO. Do all men kill the things they do not love?
SHYLOCK. Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
BASSANIO. Every offence is not a hate at first.
SHYLOCK. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
ANTONIO. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?— His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no moe offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
BASSANIO. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
SHYLOCK. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond.
DUKE. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend’ring none?
SHYLOCK. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas’d slave, Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them. Shall I say to you “Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season’d with such viands”? You will answer “The slaves are ours.” So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment. Answer; shall I have it?
DUKE. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here today.
SALARINO. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua.
DUKE. Bring us the letters. Call the messenger.
BASSANIO. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
ANTONIO. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death, the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.
Enter Nerissa dressed like a lawyer’s clerk.
DUKE. Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
NERISSA. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.
[Presents a letter.]
BASSANIO. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
SHYLOCK. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
GRATIANO. Not on thy sole but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak’st thy knife keen. But no metal can, No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
GRATIANO. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus’d; Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern’d a wolf who, hang’d for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And whilst thou layest in thy unhallowed dam, Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv’d and ravenous.
SHYLOCK. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud. Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
DUKE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he?
NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him.
DUKE OF VENICE. With all my heart: some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter.
[Reads.] Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick, but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome. His name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant. We turn’d o’er many books together. He is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered with his own learning (the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend), comes with him at my importunity to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.
You hear the learn’d Bellario what he writes, And here, I take it, is the doctor come.
Enter Portia dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?
PORTIA. I did, my lord.
DUKE. You are welcome. Take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court?
PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here? And which the Jew?
DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
PORTIA. Is your name Shylock?
SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name.
PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. [To Antonio.] You stand within his danger, do you not?
ANTONIO. Ay, so he says.
PORTIA. Do you confess the bond?
ANTONIO. I do.
PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful.
SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.
PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there.
SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
PORTIA. Is he not able to discharge the money?
BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court, Yea, twice the sum, if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority. To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will.
PORTIA. It must not be, there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; ’Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error by the same example Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
PORTIA. I pray you let me look upon the bond.
SHYLOCK. Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
PORTIA. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offered thee.
SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice.
PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit, And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful, Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond.
ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment.
PORTIA. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man!
PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
SHYLOCK. ’Tis very true. O wise and upright judge, How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
PORTIA. Therefore lay bare your bosom.
SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast So says the bond, doth it not, noble judge? “Nearest his heart”: those are the very words.
PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh?
SHYLOCK. I have them ready.
PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond?
PORTIA. It is not so express’d, but what of that? ’Twere good you do so much for charity.
SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond.
PORTIA. You, merchant, have you anything to say?
ANTONIO. But little. I am arm’d and well prepar’d. Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well, Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you, For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom: it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty, from which ling’ring penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife, Tell her the process of Antonio’s end, Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death. And when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent but you that you shall lose your friend And he repents not that he pays your debt. For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart.
BASSANIO. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself, But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem’d above thy life. I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you.
PORTIA. Your wife would give you little thanks for that If she were by to hear you make the offer.
GRATIANO. I have a wife who I protest I love. I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
NERISSA. ’Tis well you offer it behind her back, The wish would make else an unquiet house.
SHYLOCK. These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter— Would any of the stock of Barabbas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! We trifle time, I pray thee, pursue sentence.
PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine, The court awards it and the law doth give it.
SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge!
PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it.
SHYLOCK. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare.
PORTIA. Tarry a little, there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood. The words expressly are “a pound of flesh”: Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh, But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice.
GRATIANO. O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge!
SHYLOCK. Is that the law?
PORTIA. Thyself shalt see the act. For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d Thou shalt have justice more than thou desir’st.
GRATIANO. O learned judge! Mark, Jew, a learned judge!
SHYLOCK. I take this offer then. Pay the bond thrice And let the Christian go.
BASSANIO. Here is the money.
PORTIA. Soft! The Jew shall have all justice. Soft! no haste! He shall have nothing but the penalty.
GRATIANO. O Jew, an upright judge, a learned judge!
PORTIA. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more, But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak’st more Or less than a just pound, be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
GRATIANO. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.
PORTIA. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture.
SHYLOCK. Give me my principal, and let me go.
BASSANIO. I have it ready for thee. Here it is.
PORTIA. He hath refus’d it in the open court, He shall have merely justice and his bond.
GRATIANO. A Daniel still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
SHYLOCK. Shall I not have barely my principal?
PORTIA. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
SHYLOCK. Why, then the devil give him good of it! I’ll stay no longer question.
PORTIA. Tarry, Jew. The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state, And the offender’s life lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, ’gainst all other voice. In which predicament I say thou stand’st; For it appears by manifest proceeding That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d The danger formerly by me rehears’d. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.
GRATIANO. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself, And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge.
DUKE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
PORTIA. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.
SHYLOCK. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that. You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.
PORTIA. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
GRATIANO. A halter gratis, nothing else, for God’s sake!
ANTONIO. So please my lord the Duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter. Two things provided more, that for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
DUKE. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here.
PORTIA. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say?
SHYLOCK. I am content.
PORTIA. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
SHYLOCK. I pray you give me leave to go from hence; I am not well; send the deed after me And I will sign it.
DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it.
GRATIANO. In christ’ning shalt thou have two god-fathers. Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font.
[Exit Shylock.]
DUKE. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
PORTIA. I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon, I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth.
DUKE. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For in my mind you are much bound to him.
[Exeunt Duke and his train.]
BASSANIO. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties, in lieu whereof, Three thousand ducats due unto the Jew We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
ANTONIO. And stand indebted, over and above In love and service to you evermore.
PORTIA. He is well paid that is well satisfied, And I delivering you, am satisfied, And therein do account myself well paid, My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you know me when we meet again, I wish you well, and so I take my leave.
BASSANIO. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further. Take some remembrance of us as a tribute, Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
PORTIA. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. [To Antonio.] Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for your sake. [To Bassanio.] And, for your love, I’ll take this ring from you. Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more, And you in love shall not deny me this.
BASSANIO. This ring, good sir? Alas, it is a trifle, I will not shame myself to give you this.
PORTIA. I will have nothing else but only this, And now methinks I have a mind to it.
BASSANIO. There’s more depends on this than on the value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation, Only for this I pray you pardon me.
PORTIA. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d.
BASSANIO. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife, And when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it.
PORTIA. That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife be not a mad-woman, And know how well I have deserv’d this ring, She would not hold out enemy for ever For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa.]
ANTONIO. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring. Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandment.
BASSANIO. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him if thou canst Unto Antonio’s house. Away, make haste.
[Exit Gratiano.]
Come, you and I will thither presently, And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene II — The same. A street
Enter Portia and Nerissa.
PORTIA. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it, we’ll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
Enter Gratiano.
GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en. My Lord Bassanio upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner.
PORTIA. That cannot be; His ring I do accept most thankfully, And so I pray you tell him. Furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock’s house.
GRATIANO. That will I do.
NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to Portia.] I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
PORTIA. [To Nerissa.] Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste! Thou know’st where I will tarry.
NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene I — Belmont. The avenue to Portia’s house
Enter Lorenzo and Jessica.
LORENZO. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise, in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents Where Cressid lay that night.
JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew, And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, And ran dismay’d away.
LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
JESSICA. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs That did renew old Æson.
LORENZO. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont.
JESSICA. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne’er a true one.
LORENZO. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
JESSICA. I would out-night you did no body come; But hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Enter Stephano.
LORENZO. Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
STEPHANO. A friend.
LORENZO. A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend?
STEPHANO. Stephano is my name, and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont. She doth stray about By holy crosses where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours.
LORENZO. Who comes with her?
STEPHANO. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you is my master yet return’d?
LORENZO. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Enter Launcelet.
LAUNCELET. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!
LORENZO. Who calls?
LAUNCELET. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola!
LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here!
LAUNCELET. Sola! Where, where?
LORENZO. Here!
LAUNCELET. Tell him there’s a post come from my master with his horn full of good news. My master will be here ere morning.
[Exit.]
LORENZO. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter; why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand, And bring your music forth into the air.
[Exit Stephano.]
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patens 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-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians.
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn. With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear, And draw her home with music.
[Music.]
JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
LORENZO. The reason is, your spirits are attentive. For do but note a wild and wanton herd Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood, If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
Enter Portia and Nerissa.
PORTIA. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
NERISSA. When the moon shone we did not see the candle.
PORTIA. So doth the greater glory dim the less. A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
NERISSA. It is your music, madam, of the house.
PORTIA. Nothing is good, I see, without respect. Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
NERISSA. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
PORTIA. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace! How the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak’d!
[Music ceases.]
LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia.
PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice.
LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home.
PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return’d?
LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before To signify their coming.
PORTIA. Go in, Nerissa. Give order to my servants, that they take No note at all of our being absent hence, Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.
[A tucket sounds.]
LORENZO. Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not.
PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick, It looks a little paler. ’Tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano and their Followers.
BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun.
PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me. But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.
BASSANIO. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound.
PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of.
PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.
GRATIANO. [To Nerissa.] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong, In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.
PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What’s the matter?
GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutlers’ poetry Upon a knife, “Love me, and leave me not.”
NERISSA. What talk you of the posy, or the value? You swore to me when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave. Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge’s clerk! No, God’s my judge, The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it.
GRATIANO. He will, and if he live to be a man.
NERISSA. Ay, if a woman live to be a man.
GRATIANO. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk, A prating boy that begg’d it as a fee, I could not for my heart deny it him.
PORTIA. You were to blame,—I must be plain with you,— To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift, A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger, And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it, and here he stands. I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief, An ’twere to me I should be mad at it.
BASSANIO. [Aside.] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it.
GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed Deserv’d it too. And then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine, And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings.
PORTIA. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you receiv’d of me.
BASSANIO. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it, but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it, it is gone.
PORTIA. Even so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed Until I see the ring.
NERISSA. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine!
BASSANIO. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
PORTIA. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas’d to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring.
BASSANIO. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, And begg’d the ring, the which I did deny him, And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away, Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforc’d to send it after him. I was beset with shame and courtesy. My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
PORTIA. Let not that doctor e’er come near my house, Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you, I’ll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband’s bed. Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. Lie not a night from home. Watch me like Argus, If you do not, if I be left alone, Now by mine honour which is yet mine own, I’ll have that doctor for mine bedfellow.
NERISSA. And I his clerk. Therefore be well advis’d How you do leave me to mine own protection.
GRATIANO. Well, do you so. Let not me take him then, For if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen.
ANTONIO. I am th’ unhappy subject of these quarrels.
PORTIA. Sir, grieve not you. You are welcome notwithstanding.
BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong, And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself—
PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one. Swear by your double self, And there’s an oath of credit.
BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee.
ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which but for him that had your husband’s ring Had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly.
PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other.
ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring.
BASSANIO. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!
PORTIA. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio, For by this ring, the doctor lay with me.
NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me.
GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough. What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d it?
PORTIA. Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz’d. Here is a letter; read it at your leisure. It comes from Padua from Bellario. There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there, her clerk. Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, And even but now return’d. I have not yet Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome, And I have better news in store for you Than you expect: unseal this letter soon. There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter.
ANTONIO. I am dumb.
BASSANIO. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?
GRATIANO. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?
NERISSA. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man.
BASSANIO. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow. When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
ANTONIO. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road.
PORTIA. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
NERISSA. Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess’d of.
LORENZO. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people.
PORTIA. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in, And charge us there upon inter’gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully.
GRATIANO. Let it be so. The first inter’gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark Till I were couching with the doctor’s clerk. Well, while I live, I’ll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.
[Exeunt.]
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR
Dramatis Personæ
HOST of the Garter Inn SIR JOHN FALSTAFF ROBIN, page to Falstaff BARDOLPH, follower of Falstaff PISTOL, follower of Falstaff NYM, follower of Falstaff
Robert SHALLOW, a country justice Abraham SLENDER, cousin to Shallow Peter SIMPLE, servant to Slender FENTON, a young gentleman
George PAGE, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS PAGE, his wife MISTRESS ANNE PAGE, her daughter, in love with Fenton WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, son to Page
Frank FORD, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS FORD, his wife JOHN, Servant to Ford ROBERT, Servant to Ford
SIR HUGH EVANS, a Welsh parson DOCTOR CAIUS, a French physician MISTRESS QUICKLY, servant to Doctor Caius John RUGBY, servant to Doctor Caius
SERVANTS to Page, &c.
SCENE: Windsor and the neighbourhood
Act I, Scene I — Windsor. Before Page’s house
Enter Justice Shallow, Slender and Sir Hugh Evans.
SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not. I will make a Star Chamber matter of it. If he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.
SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace and Coram.
SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum.
SLENDER. Ay, and Ratolorum too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself “Armigero” in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation—“Armigero.”
SHALLOW. Ay, that I do, and have done any time these three hundred years.
SLENDER. All his successors, gone before him hath done’t; and all his ancestors that come after him may. They may give the dozen white luces in their coat.
SHALLOW. It is an old coat.
EVANS. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well. It agrees well, passant. It is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love.
SHALLOW. The luce is the fresh fish. The salt fish is an old coat.
SLENDER. I may quarter, coz.
SHALLOW. You may, by marrying.
EVANS. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.
SHALLOW. Not a whit.
EVANS. Yes, py’r Lady. If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures. But that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the Church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you.
SHALLOW. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot.
EVANS. It is not meet the Council hear a riot. There is no fear of Got in a riot. The Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot. Take your vizaments in that.
SHALLOW. Ha! O’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it.
EVANS. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity.
SLENDER. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman?
EVANS. It is that fery person for all the ’orld, as just as you will desire, and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed—Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!—give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.
SHALLOW. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound?
EVANS. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.
SHALLOW. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts.
EVANS. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts.
SHALLOW. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there?
EVANS. Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there, and I beseech you be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page.
[Knocks.]
What, ho! Got pless your house here!
PAGE. [Within.] Who’s there?
EVANS. Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow, and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings.
Enter Page.
PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow.
SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you, much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page? And I thank you always with my heart, la, with my heart.
PAGE. Sir, I thank you.
SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.
PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender.
SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall.
PAGE. It could not be judged, sir.
SLENDER. You’ll not confess, you’ll not confess.
SHALLOW. That he will not. ’Tis your fault; ’tis your fault. ’Tis a good dog.
PAGE. A cur, sir.
SHALLOW. Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog, can there be more said? He is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here?
PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you.
EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.
SHALLOW. He hath wronged me, Master Page.
PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.
SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed. Is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me, indeed he hath, at a word, he hath. Believe me. Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged.
PAGE. Here comes Sir John.
Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym and Pistol.
FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the King?
SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge.
FALSTAFF. But not kissed your keeper’s daughter!
SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! This shall be answered.
FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered.
SHALLOW. The Council shall know this.
FALSTAFF. ’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you’ll be laughed at.
EVANS. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts.
FALSTAFF. Good worts? Good cabbage!—Slender, I broke your head. What matter have you against me?
SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you, and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket.
BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese!
SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter.
PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus?
SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter.
NYM. Slice, I say! Pauca, pauca, slice, that’s my humour.
SLENDER. Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin?
EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand; there is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.
PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them.
EVANS. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my notebook, and we will afterwards ’ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can.
FALSTAFF. Pistol!
PISTOL. He hears with ears.
EVANS. The tevil and his tam! What phrase is this, “He hears with ear”? Why, it is affectations.
FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse?
SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else! Of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yed Miller, by these gloves.
FALSTAFF. Is this true, Pistol?
EVANS. No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse.
PISTOL. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!—Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.— Word of denial in thy labras here! Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest.
SLENDER. [Points at Nym.] By these gloves, then, ’twas he.
NYM. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours. I will say “marry trap with you”, if you run the nuthook’s humour on me. That is the very note of it.
SLENDER. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it. For though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.
FALSTAFF. What say you, Scarlet and John?
BARDOLPH. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences.
EVANS. It is his “five senses”. Fie, what the ignorance is!
BARDOLPH. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashiered; and so conclusions passed the careers.
SLENDER. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but ’tis no matter. I’ll ne’er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick. If I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.
EVANS. So Got ’udge me, that is a virtuous mind.
FALSTAFF. You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it.
Enter Mistress Ford, Mistress Page and her daughter Anne Page with wine.
PAGE Nay, daughter, carry the wine in, we’ll drink within.
[Exit Anne Page.]
SLENDER O heaven, this is Mistress Anne Page.
PAGE. How now, Mistress Ford?
FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met. By your leave, good mistress.
[Kisses her.]
PAGE. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner. Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
[Exeunt all but Slender.]
SLENDER. I had rather than forty shillings I had my book of Songs and Sonnets here.
Enter Simple.
How now, Simple, where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you?
SIMPLE. Book of Riddles? Why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas?
Enter Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans.
SHALLOW. Come, coz; come, coz, we stay for you. A word with you, coz. Marry, this, coz: there is, as ’twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me?
SLENDER. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable. If it be so, I shall do that that is reason.
SHALLOW. Nay, but understand me.
SLENDER. So I do, sir.
EVANS. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender. I will description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it.
SLENDER. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says. I pray you pardon me, he’s a Justice of Peace in his country, simple though I stand here.
EVANS. But that is not the question. The question is concerning your marriage.
SHALLOW. Ay, there’s the point, sir.
EVANS. Marry, is it; the very point of it—to Mistress Anne Page.
SLENDER. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands.
EVANS. But can you affection the ’oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth, or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid?
SHALLOW. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?
SLENDER. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason.
EVANS. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! You must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her.
SHALLOW. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her?
SLENDER. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason.
SHALLOW. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz. What I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid?
SLENDER. I will marry her, sir, at your request. But if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another. I hope upon familiarity will grow more contempt. But if you say “Marry her,” I will marry her. That I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.
EVANS. It is a fery discretion answer, save the fall is in the ’ord “dissolutely.” The ’ort is, according to our meaning, “resolutely.” His meaning is good.
SHALLOW. Ay, I think my cousin meant well.
SLENDER. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la!
SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne.
Enter Anne Page.
SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne.—Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne.
ANNE. The dinner is on the table, my father desires your worships’ company.
SHALLOW. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne.
EVANS. ’Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace.
[Exeunt Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans.]
ANNE Will’t please your worship to come in, sir?
SLENDER. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well.
ANNE. The dinner attends you, sir.
SLENDER. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. [To Simple.] Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow.
[Exit Simple.]
A Justice of Peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born.
ANNE. I may not go in without your worship. They will not sit till you come.
SLENDER. I’ faith, I’ll eat nothing. I thank you as much as though I did.
ANNE. I pray you, sir, walk in.
SLENDER. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence—three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes—and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i’ the town?
ANNE. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of.
SLENDER. I love the sport well, but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not?
ANNE. Ay, indeed, sir.
SLENDER. That’s meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain. But, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed. But women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favoured rough things.
Enter Page.
PAGE Come, gentle Master Slender, come. We stay for you.
SLENDER. I’ll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.
PAGE. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! Come, come.
SLENDER. Nay, pray you lead the way.
PAGE. Come on, sir.
SLENDER. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.
ANNE. Not I, sir; pray you keep on.
SLENDER. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong.
ANNE. I pray you, sir.
SLENDER. I’ll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la!
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene II — The same
Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple.
EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house which is the way. And there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer and his wringer.
SIMPLE. Well, sir.
EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter. For it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone. I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene III — A room in the Garter Inn
Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol and Robin.
FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter!
HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely.
FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers.
HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier. Let them wag; trot, trot.
FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week.
HOST. Thou’rt an emperor—Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph. He shall draw, he shall tap. Said I well, bully Hector?
FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host.
HOST. I have spoke, let him follow.—Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word, follow.
[Exit Host.]
FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade. An old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered servingman a fresh tapster. Go, adieu.
BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive.
PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight, wilt thou the spigot wield?
[Exit Bardolph.]
NYM He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited?
FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox. His thefts were too open. His filching was like an unskilful singer, he kept not time.
NYM. The good humour is to steal at a minute’s rest.
PISTOL. “Convey,” the wise it call. “Steal?” Foh! A fico for the phrase!
FALSTAFF. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.
PISTOL. Why, then, let kibes ensue.
FALSTAFF. There is no remedy, I must cony-catch, I must shift.
PISTOL. Young ravens must have food.
FALSTAFF. Which of you know Ford of this town?
PISTOL. I ken the wight, he is of substance good.
FALSTAFF. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.
PISTOL. Two yards, and more.
FALSTAFF. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about, but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife. I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation. I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is “I am Sir John Falstaff’s.”
PISTOL. He hath studied her will and translated her will—out of honesty into English.
NYM. The anchor is deep. Will that humour pass?
FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse. He hath a legion of angels.
PISTOL. As many devils entertain, and “To her, boy,” say I.
NYM. The humour rises; it is good. Humour me the angels.
FALSTAFF. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades. Sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.
PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine.
NYM. I thank thee for that humour.
FALSTAFF. O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here’s another letter to her. She bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheaters to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page;—and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.
PISTOL. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? Then Lucifer take all!
NYM. I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the ’haviour of reputation.
FALSTAFF. [To Robin.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.— Rogues, hence, avaunt! Vanish like hailstones, go! Trudge, plod away o’ th’ hoof, seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of this age: French thrift, you rogues—myself and skirted page.
[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.]
PISTOL Let vultures gripe thy guts! For gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguile the rich and poor. Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk!
NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge.
PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge?
NYM. By welkin and her star!
PISTOL. With wit or steel?
NYM. With both the humours, I. I will discuss the humour of this love to Ford.
PISTOL. And I to Page shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile.
NYM. My humour shall not cool. I will incense Ford to deal with poison, I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous. That is my true humour.
PISTOL. Thou art the Mars of malcontents. I second thee. Troop on.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene IV — A room in Doctor Caius’s house
Enter Mistress Quickly and Simple.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby!
Enter Rugby.
I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the King’s English.
RUGBY. I’ll go watch.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Go; and we’ll have a posset for’t soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.
[Exit Rugby.]
An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate. His worst fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way, but nobody but has his fault. But let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is?
SIMPLE. Ay, for fault of a better.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. And Master Slender’s your master?
SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover’s paring-knife?
SIMPLE. No, forsooth, he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. A softly-sprighted man, is he not?
SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. But he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head. He hath fought with a warrener.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. How say you? O, I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?
SIMPLE. Yes, indeed, does he.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master. Anne is a good girl, and I wish—
Enter Rugby.
RUGBY Out, alas! Here comes my master.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man, go into this closet. He will not stay long.
[Simple steps into the closet.]
What, John Rugby! John! What, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master. I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home.
[Exit Rugby.]
[Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, etc.
Enter Doctor Caius.
CAIUS Vat is you sing? I do not like dese toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet une boîtine verte, a box, a green-a box. Do intend vat I speak? A green-a box.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth, I’ll fetch it you. [Aside.] I am glad he went not in himself. If he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.
CAIUS. Fe, fe, fe fe! Ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m’en vais à la cour—la grande affaire.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Is it this, sir?
CAIUS. Oui, mette-le au mon pocket. Dépêche, quickly—Vere is dat knave Rugby?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby, John!
Enter Rugby.
RUGBY Here, sir.
CAIUS. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court.
RUGBY. ’Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.
CAIUS. By my trot, I tarry too long. ’Od’s me! Qu’ay j’oublié? Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay me, he’ll find the young man there, and be mad!
CAIUS. O diable, diable! Vat is in my closet? Villainy! Larron! [_Pulling Simple out_.] Rugby, my rapier!
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Good master, be content.
CAIUS. Wherefore shall I be content-a?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. The young man is an honest man.
CAIUS. What shall de honest man do in my closet? Dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it. He came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh.
CAIUS. Vell?
SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to—
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Peace, I pray you.
CAIUS. Peace-a your tongue!—Speak-a your tale.
SIMPLE. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. This is all, indeed, la! But I’ll ne’er put my finger in the fire, and need not.
CAIUS. Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, baille me some paper.—Tarry you a little-a while.
[Writes.]
MISTRESS QUICKLY. [Aside to Simple.] I am glad he is so quiet. If he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I’ll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house, and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself—
SIMPLE. [Aside to Mistress Quickly.] ’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. [Aside to Simple.] Are you avised o’ that? You shall find it a great charge, and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding—to tell you in your ear, I would have no words of it—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind. That’s neither here nor there.
CAIUS. You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh. By gar, it is a shallenge. I will cut his troat in de park, and I will teach a scurvy jackanape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone, it is not good you tarry here.—By gar, I will cut all his two stones. By gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog.
[Exit Simple.]
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Alas, he speaks but for his friend.
CAIUS. It is no matter-a ver dat. Do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate. What, the good-year!
CAIUS. Rugby, come to the court with me. [To Mistress Quickly.] By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door.—Follow my heels, Rugby.
[Exeunt Caius and Rugby.]
MISTRESS QUICKLY. You shall have An—fool’s head of your own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that. Never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind than I do, nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.
FENTON. [Within.] Who’s within there, ho?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Who’s there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.
Enter Fenton.
FENTON How now, good woman? How dost thou?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask.
FENTON. What news? How does pretty Mistress Anne?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way, I praise heaven for it.
FENTON. Shall I do any good, think’st thou? Shall I not lose my suit?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Troth, sir, all is in His hands above. But notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye?
FENTON. Yes, marry, have I; what of that?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Well, thereby hangs a tale. Good faith, it is such another Nan! But, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s company. But, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you—well, go to.
FENTON. Well, I shall see her today. Hold, there’s money for thee. Let me have thy voice in my behalf. If thou seest her before me, commend me.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Will I? I’ faith, that we will! And I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence, and of other wooers.
FENTON. Well, farewell, I am in great haste now.
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Farewell to your worship.
[Exit Fenton.]
Truly, an honest gentleman—but Anne loves him not, for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon ’t, what have I forgot?
[Exit.]
Act II, Scene I — Before Page’s house
Enter Mistress Page reading a letter.
MISTRESS PAGE. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [Reads.] Ask me no reason why I love you, for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I. Go to, then, there’s sympathy. You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha, then there’s more sympathy. You love sack, and so do I. Would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say, pity me—’tis not a soldier-like phrase—but I say love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might, For thee to fight, John Falstaff. What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age, to show himself a young gallant! What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked—with the devil’s name!—out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth. Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? For revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings.
Enter Mistress Ford.
MISTRESS FORD. Mistress Page! Trust me, I was going to your house.
MISTRESS PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.
MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that. I have to show to the contrary.
MISTRESS PAGE. Faith, but you do, in my mind.
MISTRESS FORD. Well, I do, then. Yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page, give me some counsel.
MISTRESS PAGE. What’s the matter, woman?
MISTRESS FORD. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour!
MISTRESS PAGE. Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it? Dispense with trifles. What is it?
MISTRESS FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted.
MISTRESS PAGE. What? Thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack, and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.
MISTRESS FORD. We burn daylight. Here, read, read. Perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking. And yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words. But they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of “Greensleeves.” What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?
MISTRESS PAGE. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin brother of thy letter. But let thine inherit first, for I protest mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names—sure, more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.
MISTRESS FORD. Why, this is the very same—the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us?
MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, I know not. It makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.
MISTRESS FORD. “Boarding” call you it? I’ll be sure to keep him above deck.
MISTRESS PAGE. So will I. If he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him. Let’s appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.
MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy.
MISTRESS PAGE. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too. He’s as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause, and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance.
MISTRESS FORD. You are the happier woman.
MISTRESS PAGE. Let’s consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.
[They retire.]
Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym.
FORD Well, I hope it be not so.
PISTOL. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs. Sir John affects thy wife.
FORD. Why, sir, my wife is not young.
PISTOL. He woos both high and low, both rich and poor, Both young and old, one with another, Ford. He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend.
FORD. Love my wife?
PISTOL. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou like Sir Actaeon he, With Ringwood at thy heels. O, odious is the name!
FORD. What name, sir?
PISTOL. The horn, I say. Farewell. Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night. Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.— Away, Sir Corporal Nym.—Believe it, Page, he speaks sense.
[Exit Pistol.]
FORD [Aside.] I will be patient. I will find out this.
NYM. [To Page.] And this is true, I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours. I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym. I speak, and I avouch ’tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese. Adieu.
[Exit Nym.]
PAGE [Aside.] “The humour of it,” quoth ’a! Here’s a fellow frights English out of his wits.
FORD. [Aside.] I will seek out Falstaff.
PAGE. [Aside.] I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.
FORD. [Aside.] If I do find it—well.
PAGE. [Aside.] I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o’ the town commended him for a true man.
FORD. [Aside.] ’Twas a good sensible fellow—well.
Mistress Page and Mistress Ford come forward.
PAGE. How now, Meg?
MISTRESS PAGE. Whither go you, George? Hark you.
MISTRESS FORD. How now, sweet Frank, why art thou melancholy?
FORD. I melancholy? I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.
MISTRESS FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now.—Will you go, Mistress Page?
MISTRESS PAGE. Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George? [Aside to Mistress Ford.] Look who comes yonder. She shall be our messenger to this paltry knight.
MISTRESS FORD. [Aside to Mistress Page.] Trust me, I thought on her. She’ll fit it.
Enter Mistress Quickly.
MISTRESS PAGE. You are come to see my daughter Anne?
MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth. And, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?
MISTRESS PAGE. Go in with us and see. We’d have an hour’s talk with you.
[Exeunt Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Mistress Quickly.]
PAGE How now, Master Ford?
FORD. You heard what this knave told me, did you not?
PAGE. Yes, and you heard what the other told me?
FORD. Do you think there is truth in them?
PAGE. Hang ’em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it, but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men, very rogues, now they be out of service.
FORD. Were they his men?
PAGE. Marry, were they.
FORD. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?
PAGE. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head.
FORD. I do not misdoubt my wife, but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing lie on my head. I cannot be thus satisfied.
Enter Host.
PAGE. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.—How now, mine host?
HOST. How now, bully rook? Thou’rt a gentleman.—Cavaliero Justice, I say!
Enter Shallow.
SHALLOW. I follow, mine host, I follow.—Good even and twenty, good Master Page. Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand.
HOST. Tell him, Cavaliero Justice; tell him, bully rook.
SHALLOW. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor.
FORD. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you.
HOST. What say’st thou, my bully rook?
[Ford and the Host talk apart.]
SHALLOW [To Page.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons, and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be.
[Shallow and Page talk apart. Ford and the Host come forward.]
HOST Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest cavaliero?
FORD. None, I protest. But I’ll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.
HOST. My hand, bully. Thou shalt have egress and regress—said I well?—and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, myn-heers?
SHALLOW. Have with you, mine host.
PAGE. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.
SHALLOW. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance—your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what. ’Tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.
HOST. Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag?
PAGE. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.
[Exeunt Host, Shallow and Page.]
FORD Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into ’t, and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour. If she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed.
[Exit.]