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.

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