Anthonio.* ^note
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.

Sal.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your Argosies,† ^note with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burgers on the flood;
Or as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do over-peer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.

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

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

Anth.
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.

Sola.
Why then, you are in love?

Anth.
Fy, fy!

Sola.
Not in love, neither! Then let's say you're sad,
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap, and say, you're merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows, in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots at a bag-piper;
And others of such vinegar-aspect,
That they'll not shew their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nastor swear the jest be laughable. Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.

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

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

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

Sal.
Good-morrow, my good lords.

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

Sal.
We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

Sola.
My lord Bassanio, since you've found Anthonio,
We two will leave you; but at dinner-time,
I pray you have in mind where we must meet.

Bass.
I will not fail you. [Exeunt Solar. and Sala.

Gra.
You look not well, signior Anthonio,
You have two much respect upon the world;
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

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

Gra.
Let me play the fool.—* ^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, Anthonio,
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks)
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stilness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion,
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
O my Anthonio, I do know of those,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing.
I'll tell thee more of this, another time;
But fish not with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo; fare ye well, a-while,
I'll end my exhortation, after dinner.

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

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

Anth.
Farewel; I'll grow a talker for this gear.

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

Anth.

Is that any thing, now?

Bass.

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

Anth.
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, Anthonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By shewing something a more swelling port,
Than my faint means would grant continuance.
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts,
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gaged. To you, Anthonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty,
T' unburden all my plots and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.† ^note

Anth.
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,
Lye all unlock'd to your occasions.‡ ^note

Bass.
In my school days, when I had lost one shaft,

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

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

Bass.
In Belmont is a lady, richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wond'rous virtues. Sometime, from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages;
Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu'd
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:
Nor is the wide world ign'rant of her worth;
For the four winds blow in from every coast,
Renowned suitors.
O, my Anthonio, had I but the means,
To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me such thrift,
That I should questionless be fortunate.

Anth.
Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea,
Nor 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. Scene SCENE changes to Portia's House in Belmont. A grand Saloon. Three Caskets are set out, one of Gold, another of Silver, and another of Lead. Enter Portia and Nerissa.* ^note

Por.

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

Ner.

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

Por.

Good sentences, and well pronounc'd.

Ner.

They would be better, if well follow'd.

Por.

If to do, were as easy as to know what were good to do,† ^note chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. He is a good divine, that follows his own instructions; I can easier

reach twenty what were good to be done, than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching. But this reasoning is not in fashion, to chuse me a husband. O me, the word, chuse! I may neither chuse whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter, curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot chuse one, nor refuse none?

Ner.

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

Por.

I pray thee, over-name them, and as thou nam'st them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.

Ner.

First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

Por.

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

Ner.

Then, there is the count Palatine.

Por.

He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, if you will not have me, chuse: he hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher, when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's head with a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. Heav'n defend me from these two.

Ner.

How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Boun?

Par.

Heaven made him, and therefore let him pass for a man* ^note

Ner.

How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

Por.

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

Ner.

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

Por.

Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within, and that temptation without,

out, I know he will chuse it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.

Ner.

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

Por.

If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtain'd by the manner of my father's will: I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I doat on his very absence, and wish them a fair departure.

Ner.

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

Por.

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

Ner.

True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

Por.

I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. How now! what news?

Bal.

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

Por.

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

Scene Scene, a publick Place in Venice. Enter Bassanio and Shylock.* ^note

Shy.

Three thousand ducats? Well.

Bass.

Ay, sir, for three months.

Shy.

For three months? Well.

Bass.

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

Shy.

Anthonio shall become bound? Well.

Bass.

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

Shy.

Three thousand ducats, for three monts, and Anthonio bound?† ^note

Bass.

Your answer to that.

Shy.

Anthonio is a good man.

Bass.

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

Shy.

No, no, no, no; my meaning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient: yet his means are in supposition; he hath an argosie bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover, upon the Ryalto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England; and other ventures he hath, squander'd abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves; I mean, pirates; and then there is the peril of the waters, winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient; three thousand ducats? I think, I may take his bond.‡ ^note

Bass.

Be assur'd you may.

Shy.

I will be assur'd I may; and that I may be assur'd, I will bethink me. May I speak with Anthonio?

Bass.

If it pleases you to dine with us.

Shy.

Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation, which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjur'd the devil into! I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Ryalto?—who is he comes here?

Bass.
This is Signior Anthonio.

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

Bass.
Shylock, do you hear?—

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

Anth.
Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow,
By taking, nor by giving of excess,
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom—Is he yet possest,
How much you would?

Shy.
Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

Anth.
And for three months.

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

Anth.
I do never use it.

Shy.
When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep,—
This Jacob from our holy Abraham was
(As his wife mother wrought in his behalf)
The third possessor; ay, he was the third.

Anth.
And what of him, did he take interest?

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

Anth.
This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for;
A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heav'n.
Was this inserted to make int'rest good?
Or is your gold and silver, ewes and rams?

Shy.
I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast.

Anth.
Mark you this, Bassanio?
The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.—† ^note
An evil soul, producing holy witness,

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek;
A goodly apple rotten at the heart.
O, what a goodly outside falshood hath!

Shy.
Three thousand ducats! 'tis a good round sum.
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.

Anth.
Well, Shylock, shalt we be beholden to you?

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

Anth.
I am as like to call thee so again,
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not
As to thy friend, (for when did friendship take
A breed of barren metal of his friend)
But lend it rather to thine enemy;

Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face
Exact the penalty.

Shy.
Why, how you storm!
I would be friends with you, and have your love;
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with;
Supply your present wants, and take no doit
Of usance of my monies, and you'll not hear me:
This is kind I offer.

Anth.
This were kindness.

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

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

Bass.
You shall not seal to such a bond for me.
I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

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

Shy.
O father Abraham, what these christians are,
Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect
The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this,
If he should break his day, what should I gain
By the exaction of the forfeiture?
A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,
Is not so estimable, or profitable,
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship!
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And for my love, I pray you, wrong me not:

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

Shy.
Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
Give him direction for this merry bond,

And I will go and purse the ducats, straight;
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
I will be with you. [Exit.

Anth.
Hie thee, gentle Jew.
This Hebrew will turn christian; he grows kind.

Bass.
I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind.

Anth.
Come on, in this there can be no dismay;
My ships come home a month before the day.* ^note [Exeunt. End of the First Act.

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