ANTHONIO.
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 my self.

Sal.
Your Mind is tossing on the Ocean,
There where your Argosies 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 Curtsie 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 Peers, 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 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.

Sola.
Why then you are in Love.

Anth.
Fie, fie.

Sola.
Not in Love neither! then let us say you are sad,
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easie
For you to laugh and leap, and say you are 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 other of such vinegar Aspect,
That they'll not shew their Teeth in way of Smile,
Though Nestor 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 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. [Exeunt Solar. and Sala.

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 his Part;
And mine a sad one.

Gra.
Let me play the Fool
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 Alablaster?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the Jaundies
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, an Oracle;
And when I ope my Lips, let no Dog bark.
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 Ears,

Which hearing them, would call their Brothers Fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not with this melancholly Bait,
For this fool 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.
Fare you well; I'll grow a Talker for this Gear.

Gra.
Thanks i'faith; for Silence is only commendable
In a Neats Tongue dry'd, and a Maid not vendible. [Exit.

Anth.

Is that any thing now?

Bass.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any Man in all Venice: his Reasons are two Grains of Wheat hid in two Bushels of Chaff; you may seek all Day e'er you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the Search.

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 to;
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 Mony, 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 stands as you your self 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 adventuring both,
I oft found both. I urge this Child-hood 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.

Anth.
You know me well, and herein spend but Time
To wind about my Love with Circumstance;
And out of doubt you do to me 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 should I 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 wondrous Virtues; Sometimes 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 ignorant of her Worth;
For the four Winds blow in from every Coast
Renowned Sutors; and her sunny Locks
Hang on her Temples like a golden Fleece,
Which makes her Seat of Belmont Cholchos Strond,
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,
Neither have I Mony, 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 Mony is, and I no question make
To have it of my Trust, or for my Sake. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Belmont. Three Caskets are set out, one of Gold, another of Silver, and another of Lead. Enter Portia and Nerissa.

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 small 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 easie as to know what were good to do, Chappels 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 to 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 Reason 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 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 Suters 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 Colt 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 shoo him himself: I am much afraid my Lady his Mother plaid false with a Smith.

Ner.

Then is there the County Palentine.

Por.

He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, and 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 to 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 Boun?

Por.

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a Man; in truth I know it is Sin to be a Mocker; but he! why he hath a Horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad Habit of Frowning than the Count Palentine, he is every Man in no Man, if a Tassel sing, he falls straight a Capring; 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 should never requite him.

Ner.

What say you then to Fauconbridge, 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 Italian, and you will come into the Court and swear that I have a poor Penny-worth in English; he is a proper Man's Picture, but alas who can converse with a dumb Show? How odly 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 other Lord his Neighbour?

Por.

That he hath a neighbourly Charity in him, for he borrow'd a Box of the Ear of the English-man, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. I think the French-man became his Surety, and sealed under for another.

Ner

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

Por.

Very vildly in the Morning when he is sober, and most vildly 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 the Temptation without, I know he will chuse it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, e'er 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 Determination, which is indeed to return to their Home, and to trouble you with no more Suits, 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 Sibilla, 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 Marquiss of Mountferrat?

Por.

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

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

The four Strangers seek 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.