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

Salar.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies^{4 note}

Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood^{5 note}

Salan.
Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass^{6 note}

Salar.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew^{8 note} dock'd in sand^{9 note},
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs^{1 note}

Is sad to think upon his merchandize.

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

Salan.
Why then you are in love.

Ant.
Fye, fye!

Salan.
Not in love neither? Then let's say, you are sad,
Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy
For you, to laugh, and leap, and say, you are merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus^{2 note},
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes^{5 note},
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspéct,
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile^{4 note},
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.

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

Salar.
I would have staid till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.

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

Salar.
Good morrow, my good lords.

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

Salar.
We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.

Lor.
My lord Bassanio^{5 note}

Bass.
I will not fail you.

Gra.
You look not well, signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it^{6 note}, that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Ant.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part^{7 note}

Gra.
Let me play the Fool^{8 note}:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream^{9 note}

O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure^{3 note},
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears^{4 note}

Lor.
Well, we will leave you then till dinnertime:
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra.
Well, keep me company but two years more* ^note,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Ant.
Farewell* ^note: I'll grow a talker for this gear^{6 note}

Gra.
Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.

Ant.
Is that any thing now^{7 note}

Bass.

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

Ant.
Well; tell me now, what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?

Bass.
'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port^{8 note}

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

Bass.
In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
I shot his fellow^{9 note}

The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth: and by adventuring both,
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth^{1 note}

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

And I am prest unto it^{2 note}

Bass.
In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wond'rous virtues; sometimes from her eyes^{3 note}

Ant.
Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money, nor commodity
To raise a present sum: therefore go forth,
Try what my credit can in Venice do;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake. [Exeunt.

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