Mor.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phœbus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love,
To prove whose blood is reddest, his, or mine^{6 note}

Por.
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes:

Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
But, if my father had not scanted me,
And hedg'd me by his wit^{8 note}

Mor.
Even for that I thank you;
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets,
To try my fortune. By this scimitar,—
That slew the Sophy^{9 note}

And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.

Por.
You must take your chance;
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose,—if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd^{2 note}

Mor.
Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance.

Por.
First, forward to the temple; after dinner
Your hazard shall be made.

Mor.
Good fortune then! [Cornets.
To make me blest^{3 note}

SCENE II. Venice. A Street. Enter Launcelot Gobbo^{4 note}.

Laun.

Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew, my master: The fiend is at mine elbow; and tempts me, saying to me, Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or good Gobbo, or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away: My conscience says,—no; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo; or, as aforesaid, honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels^{5 note}

Gob.

Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?

Laun.

Turn up on your right hand^{2 note}


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

Gob.

By God's sonties^{3 note}

hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him, or no?

Laun.

Talk you of young master Launcelot?— Mark me now; [aside] now will I raise the waters: —Talk you of young master Launcelot?

Gob.

No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.

Laun.

Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young master Launcelot.

Gob.

Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir* ^{note 4 note}

Laun.

But I pray you ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you; Talk you of young master Launcelot?

Gob.

Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

Laun.

Ergo, master Launcelot; talk not of master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman (according to fates and destinies, and such odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches of learning,) is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say, in plain terms, gone to heaven.

Gob.

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

Laun.

Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff, or a prop?—Do you know me, father?

Gob.

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

Laun.

Do you not know me, father?

Gob.

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

Laun.

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

Gob.

Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure, you are not Launcelot, my boy.

Laun.

Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be^{5 note}

Gob.

I cannot think, you are my son.

Laun.

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

Gob.

Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipp'd might he be!

what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin, than Dobbin my phill-horse^{6 note}

Laun.

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

Gob.

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

Laun.

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

Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and other Followers.

Bass.

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

Laun.

To him, father.

Gob.

God bless your worship!

Bass.

Gramercy; Would'st thou aught with me?

Gob.

Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,—

Laun.

Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that would, sir, as my father shall specify,—

Gob.

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

Laun.

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

Gob.

His master and he, (saving your worship's reverence,) are scarce cater-cousins:

Laun.

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

Gob.

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

Laun.

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

Bass.
One speak for both;—What would you?

Laun.
Serve you, sir.

Gob.
This is the very defect of the matter, sir.

Bass.
I know thee well, thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day,

And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment,
To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.

Laun.

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

Bass.
Thou speak'st it well: Go, father, with thy son:—
Take leave of thy old master, and enquire
My lodging out:—Give him a livery [To his Followers.
More guarded^{7 note}

Laun.

Father, in:—I cannot get a service, no; —I have ne'er a tongue in my head.—Well; [Looking on his palm;] if any man in Italy have a fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon a book^{8 note}

shall have good fortune^{9 note}

Jes.
Farell, good Launcelot.—
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me,
To be asham'd to be my father's child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners: O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife;
Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. [Exit.

SCENE IV. The Same. A Street. Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio.

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

Gra.
We have not made good preparation.

Salar.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers^{8 note}

Salan.
'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd;
And better, in my mind, not undertook.

Lor.
'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours
To furnish us:— Enter Launcelot, with a letter.
Friend Launcelot, what's the news?

Laun.

An it shall please you to break up this^{9 note}

Lor.
I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
And whiter than the paper it writ on,
Is the fair hand that writ.

Gra.
Love-news, in faith.

Laun.
By your leave, sir.

Lor.
Whither goest thou?

Laun.

Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.

Lor.
Hold here, take this:—tell gentle Jessica,
I will not fail her;—speak it privately; go.—
Gentlemen, [Exit Launcelot.
Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.

Salar.
Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

Salan.
And so will I.

Lor.
Meet me, and Gratiano,
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.

Salar.
'Tis good we do so. [Exeunt Salar. and Salan.

Gra.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

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

Shy.
Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—
What, Jessica!—thou shalt not gormandize,
As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;—
Why, Jessica, I say!

Laun.
Why, Jessica!

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

Laun.

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

Jes.
Call you? What is your will?

Shy.
I am bid forth^{1 note}

Laun.

I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth expect your reproach.

Shy.

So do I his.

Laun.

And they have conspired together,—I will not say, you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a bleeding

on Black-Monday last^{3 note}

Shy.
What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squeaking* ^note of the wry-neck'd fife^{4 note}

Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the publick street,
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces:
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements;
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
My sober house.—By Jacob's staff, I swear,
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
But I will go.—Go you before me, sirrah;
Say, I will come.

Laun.
I will go before, sir.—
Mistress, look out at window, for all this;
  There will come a Christian by,
  Will be worth a Jewess' eye^{5 note}
. [Exit Laun.

Shy.
What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?

Jes.
His words were, Farewell, mistress; nothing else.

Shy.
The patch is kind enough^{6 note}; but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and* ^note he sleeps by day
More than the wild cat; drones hive not with me;
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse.—Well, Jessica, go in;
Perhaps I will return immediately;
Do, as I bid you,
Shut doors^{7 note} after you: Fast bind, fast find;
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit.

Jes.
Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [Exit. SCENE VI. The same. Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued.

Gra.
This is the pent-house, under which Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand* ^{note 8 note}.

Salar.
His hour is almost past.

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

Salar.
O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly^{9 note}

Gra.
That ever holds: Who riseth from a feast,
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,

Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
How like a younker^{1 note}

Salar.
Here comes Lorenzo;—more of this hereafter.

Lor.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
Not I, but my affairs have made you wait;
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I'll watch as long for you then.—Approach^{6 note}
;
Here dwells my father Jew:—Ho! who's within? Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes.

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

Lor.
Lorenzo, and thy love.

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

Lor.
Heaven, and thy thoughts, are witness that thou art.

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

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

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

Lor.
So are you* ^note, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once;

For the close night doth play the run-away,
And we are staid for at Bassanio's feast.

Jes.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some more ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit, from above.

Gra.
Now, by my hood, a Gentile* ^note, and no Jew^{7 note}

Lor.
Beshrew me, but I love her heartily:
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul. Enter Jessica, below.
What, art thou come?—On, gentlemen, away;
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with Jessica and Salarino. Enter Antonio.

Ant.
Who's there?

Gra.
Signior Antonio?

Ant.
Fye, fye, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you:—
No masque to-night; the wind is come about,

Bassanio presently will go aboard;
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

Gra.
I am glad on't; I desire no more delight,
Than to be under sail, and gone to-night. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Flourish of Cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and both their Trains.

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

Mor.
The first, of gold, who this inscription bears;
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many* ^note men desire.
The second, silver, which this promise carries;—
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt^{8 note};—
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.
How shall I know if I do choose the right?

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

Mor.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see,
I will survey the inscriptions back again:
What says this leaden casket?
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.
Must give—For what? for lead? hazard for lead?
This casket threatens: Men, that hazard all,
Do it in hope of fair advantages:

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
I'll then nor give, nor hazard, aught for lead.
What says the silver, with her virgin hue?
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.
As much as he deserves?—Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand:
If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady;
And yet to be afeard of my deserving,
Were but a weak disabling of myself.
As much as I deserve!—Why, that's the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding;
But more than these, in love I do deserve.
What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?—
Let's see once more this saying grav'd in gold:
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire.
Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her:
From the four corners of the earth they come,
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.
The Hyrcanian deserts, and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia, are as through-fares now,
For princes to come view fair Portia:
The watry kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits; but they come,
As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is't like, that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation,
To think so base a thought; it were too gross
To rib^{9 note}

her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

Or shall I think, in silver she's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalued to try'd gold^{1 note}

?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin, that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped* ^note in gold; but that's insculp'd upon^{2 note}

Por.
There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket.

Mor.
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll: I'll read the writing.

All that glisters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold,
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms infold^{3 note}

Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgement old,
Your answer had not been inscrol'd^{4 note}

Por.
A gentle riddance:—Draw the curtains, go;—
Let all of his complexion choose me so^{5 note}. [Exeunt.

SCENE VIII. Venice. A Street. Enter Salarino and Salanio.

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

Salan.
The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the duke;
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

Salar.
He came too late, the ship was under sail:
But there the duke was given to understand,
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:
Besides, Antonio certify'd the duke,
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

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

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

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

Salar.
Marry, well remember'd:

I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday^{6 note}

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

Salar.
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
Bassanio told him, he would make some speed
Of his return; he answer'd—Do not so,
Slubber not^{7 note}

Be merry; and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there:
And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him^{9 note}
,
And with affection wondrous sensible
He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted.

Salan.
I think, he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee, let us go, and find him out,
And quicken his embraced heaviness^{1 note}

Salar.
Do we so. [Exeunt.

SCENE IX. Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter Nerissa, with a Servant.

Ner.
Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain^{2 note} straight;
The prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,
And comes to his election presently. Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains.

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

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

Por.
To these injunctions every one doth swear,
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

Ar.
And so have I address'd me:^{3 note}

To my heart's hope!—Gold, silver, and base lead.
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath:
You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard.
What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:—
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire.
What many men desire.—That many may be meant
By the fool multitude^{4 note}

Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force^{5 note} and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump^{6 note} with common spirits,
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves;
And well said too; For who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit! Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O, that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not deriv'd corruptly! and that clear honour
Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover, that stand bare?
How many be commanded, that command?
How much low peasantry* ^note would then be glean'd
From the true seed of honour?^{7 note}



and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times,
To be new varnish'd^{8 note}

Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves:
I will assume desert;—Give me a key for this^{9 note},
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

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

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

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

Ar.
What is here?

The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times tried that judgment is,
That did never choose amiss:
Some there be, that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss:
There be fools alive, I wis^{1 note}

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

Ner.
The ancient saying is no heresy;—
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

Por.
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Enter a Servant.

Serv.
Where is my lady?

Por.
Here; what would my lord^{5 note}?

Serv.
Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify the approaching of his lord:
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets^{6 note}
;
To wit, besides commends, and courteous breath,
Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen
So likely an embassador of love:
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

Por.
No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard,
Thou wilt say anon, he is some kin to thee,
Thou spend'st such high-day wit^{7 note} in praising him.—
Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see
Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly.

Ner.
Bassanio, lord love, if thy will it be! [Exeunt.

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