Ant.
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, with portly sail,—
Like signiors and rich burgers on the ^note flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea,—
Do over-peer the petty traffiquers,
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Sol.
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 ^note the wind;
Peering ^note 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 ^note.
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 ^note 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 ^note 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, Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandize.

Ant.
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.

Sal.
Why, then you are in ^note love.

Ant.
Fie, fie!

Sal.
Not in love neither? Then let us 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 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 ^note 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.

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

Sal.
I would have stay'd 'till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant.
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.

Bas.
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 Salerino, and Solanio.

Lor.
My ^note lord14Q0265 Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,
We two will leave you; but, at dinner-time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

Bas.
I will not fail you. ^note

Gra.
You look not well, signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.

Believe me, you are marvelously chang'd.

Ant.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must ^note play a 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 ^note 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, Antonio,—
I love thee, and it is my ^note love that speaks;—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream, and ^note 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, ^note
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark:
O, my Antonio, I do know of these ^note,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I ^note am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn ^{note note} those ears,
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 gudgeon ^note, this opinion.—
Come, good Lorenzo:—Fare ye well ^note 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.

Ant.
Farewel: ^note 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 vendable. ^note [Exeunt Gratiano, and Lorenzo.

Ant.

Is that ^note any thing now?

Bas.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice: His reasons are as ^note 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.

Ant.
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?

Bas.
'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabl'd mine estate,
By something showing ^note 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, Antonio,
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.

Ant.
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.

Bas.
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; and ^note, 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 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, ^note
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant.
You know me well; and herein spend but time,
To wind about my love with circumstance;
And, out of doubt, you do me now ^note more ^note 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.

Bas.
In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues; sometime ^note 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 suitors: and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,
And many Jasons come ^note in quest of her.
O my Antonio, 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.

Ant.
Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea;
Neither 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. Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. 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 ought I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing: It is no mean happiness ^note 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.

Por.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's

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 ^note 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 ^note to choose me a husband:— O me, the word choose! I may neither choose whom ^note I would, nor refuse whom ^note I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father:— Is it ^note not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose 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 chooses his meaning, chooses you) will, no doubt, never ^note be chosen by any rightly, but one who you ^note 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 ^note, over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.

Ner.

First, there is the Neapolitan ^note 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 shoe him ^note himself: I am much afeard ^note, my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.

Ner.

Then, is there the county Palatine. ^note

Por.

He doth nothing but frown; as who should say,

An you ^note will not have me, choose: 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 ^note marry'd 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 ^note to be a mocker; But, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; ^note a better bad habit of frowning than the count Palatine ^note: he is every man in no man: if a throstle ^note sing, ^note he falls straight a cap'ring; 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 ^note requite him.

Ner.

What say then ^note 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 the 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 Scottish lord ^note14Q0266, 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 ^note he would pay him again, when he was able: I think, the Frenchman became his surety, and seal'd under for another.

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: an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

Ner.

If he should offer to choose, and choose 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 choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be ^note 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 ^note imposition, depending on the caskets.

Por.

If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chast as Diana, unless I be obtained 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 I pray God grant them ^note a fair departure.

Ner.

Do you not remember, lady, in your father's

time, a Venetian, a scholar ^note, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the marquis of Montferrat?

Por.

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called ^note.

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? ^note

Ser.

The four strangers seek for ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.