SCENE I.
A Street in Venice.
Enter Anthonio, Salarino, and Salanio.
Anth.
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say, it wearies you;
-- 132 --
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 argosies5 note
with portly sail,—
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea,—
-- 133 --
Do over-peer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Sala.
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 grass6 note
, to know where sits the wind;
Prying7 note 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 8 noteAndrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs9 note
,
-- 134 --
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her 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?
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.
Sala.
Why then you are in love.
Anth.
Fie, fie!
Sala.
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 Janus1 note
,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes2 note,
-- 135 --
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspect,
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile3 note,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.
Sal.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo: Fare you well;
We leave you now with better company.
Sala.
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 the 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.
[Exeunt Sal. and Sala.
Lor.
My lord Bassanio4 note
, since you have 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.
-- 136 --
Gra.
You look not well, signior Anthonio;
You have too 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 a part,
And mine a sad one.
Gra.
Let me play the Fool5 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 cream9Q0312 and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle6 note,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark7 note!
O, my Anthonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears8 note,
-- 137 --
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers, fools.
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 dinner9 note.
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.
Fare well: 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 now1 note
9Q0313?
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.
-- 138 --
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 something shewing 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 gag'd: To you, Anthonio,
I owe the most, in money, and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburthen all my plots, and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
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 extreamest means,
Lye all unlock'd to your occasions.
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; and by advent'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 youth2 note
,
-- 139 --
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.
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 am I prest unto it3 note
9Q0314: therefore, speak.
Bass.
In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wond'rous virtues; sometimes from her eyes4 note
I did receive fair speechless messages:
-- 140 --
Her name is Portia; nothing undervalu'd
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors: and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand,
And many Jasons come in quest of her.
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 enquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in Portia's House at Belmont.
Enter Portia and Nerissa.
Por.
By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary
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 aught I see, they are as sick, that
surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing:
It is no mean happiness therefore, 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.
-- 141 --
Por.
If to do, were as easy as to know what were
good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor
mens cottages, princes' palaces. It is a good divine,
that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of
the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain
may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper
leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the
youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the
cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion 9Q0315 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, 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 you 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 colt5 note
, indeed, for he doth nothing
-- 142 --
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 county Palatine6 note.
Por.
He doth nothing but frown; as who should
say, An if you will not have me, chuse: 7 notehe 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. God defend me from these
two!
Ner.
How say you by the French lord, Monsieur
Le Bon?
Por.
God made him, and therefore let him pass for
a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker;
But, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's;
-- 143 --
a better bad habit of frowning than the count
Palatine: he is every man in no man: if a throstle
sing, he falls strait a capering; he will fence with
his own shadow: if I should marry him, I should
marry twenty husbands: If he would despise me, I
would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I
shall never requite him.
Ner.
What say you then to Faulconbridge, the
young baron of England?
Por.
You know, I say nothing to him; for he understands
not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin,
French, nor Italian8 note; and you will come into the
court and swear, that I have a poor pennyworth in
the English. He is a proper man's picture; But,
alas! who can converse with a dumb show? How
oddly he is suited! I think, he bought his doublet
in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany,
and his behaviour every where.
Ner.
What think you of the Scottish lord9 note, his
neighbour?
Por.
That he hath a neighbourly charity in him;
for he borrow'd a box of the ear of the Englishman,
and swore he would pay him again, when he was able:
I think, the Frenchman became his surety1 note, and
seal'd under for another.
Ner.
How like you the young German2 note
, the duke
of Saxony's nephew?
-- 144 --
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:
an 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, I know he will chuse it. I will do
any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be marry'd to a spunge.
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 obtained by the manner
of my father's will: I am glad this parcel of wooers
are so very reasonable; for there is not one among
them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God
grant them a fair departure. 9Q0316
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 Montferrat?
Por.
Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so he
was 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? 9Q0317
-- 145 --
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
The four strangers seek for you, madam, to
take their leave: and there is a fore-runner 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
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.—Whiles we shut the gate upon one
wooer, another knocks at the door.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A publick Place in Venice.
Enter Bassanio and Shylock.
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 months, and
Anthonio bound.
Bass.
Your answer to that.
Shy.
Anthonio is a good man.
Bass.
Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?
Shy.
Ho, 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 argosy bound to Tripolis, another
-- 146 --
to the Indies; I understand moreover upon the Rialto,
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 waters, winds, and rocks: The man is, notwithstanding,
sufficient:—three thousand ducats;—
I think, I may take his bond.
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 please you to dine with us.
Shy.
Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation
which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil
into:9Q0318 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 Rialto?—Who is he comes here?
Enter Anthonio.
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.
If I can catch him once upon the hip3 note,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 9Q0320
Which he calls interest: Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!
-- 147 --
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, albeit I neither lend nor borrow,
By taking, nor by giving of excess,
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend4 note,
I'll break a custom:—Is he yet possess'd,
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;
Methoughts, 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 wise 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 interest; not, as you would say,
Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.
When Laban and himself were compromis'd,
That all the eanlings5 note, which were streak'd, and py'd,
-- 148 --
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 kind6 note
,
He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes7 note
9Q0321;
Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time
Fall party-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
This was a way to thrive8 note
, and he was blest;
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.
Anth.
This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for;
-- 149 --
A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
But sway'd, and fashion'd, by the hand of heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good?
Or is your gold, and silver, ewes and rams?
Shy.
I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:—
But note me, signior.
Anth.
Mark you this, Bassanio,
The devil can cite scripture for his purpose9 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, shall we be beholden to you?
Shy.
Signior Anthonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my monies, and my usances1 note
:
-- 150 --
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug2 note
;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:
You call me—misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit3 note
upon my Jewish gaberdine4 note
,
And all for use of that which is mine 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; monies 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 bondman's key,
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this,—Fair Sir, you spit on me on wednesday last;
You spurn'd me such a day; another time
You call'd me—dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much monies.
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 friends; (for when did friendship take
A breed of barren metal of his friend5 note
?)
-- 151 --
But lend it rather to thine enemy;
Who if he break, thou may'st with better face
Exact the penalty.
Shy.
Why, look you, 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 for 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 pleaseth me. 9Q0323
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 6 notedwell in my necessity.
-- 152 --
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 the bond. 9Q0324
Shy.
O father Abraham, what these Christians are;
Whose own hard dealings teaches them 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, profitable neither,
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 strait;
See to my house, left in the fearful guard7 note
-- 153 --
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 terms8 note, and a villain's mind.
Anth.
Come on; in this there can be no dismay,
My ships come home a month before the day.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].