SCENE II.
Venice. A Street.
Enter Launcelot Gobbo, the Clown.
Clo.
Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run
from this Jew my master: The fiend is at mine elbow;
and tempts me, saying to me,—Gobbo note Launcelot Gobbo,
good Launcelot, or good Gobbo, or good Launcelot
Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away: my conscience
says,—no; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed,
honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, honest Launcelot Gobbo;
do not run, scorn running with thy heels:14Q0269 Well, the most
couragious fiend bids me pack; via, says the fiend; away,
says the fiend, for the heavens;14Q0270 rouse up a brave
mind, says the fiend, and run: well, my conscience, hanging
about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me,
—my honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son,—
or rather an honest woman's son; for, indeed, my father
did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind
of taste;—well, my conscience says,—Launcelot, bouge
not; bouge, says the fiend; bouge not, says my conscience:
Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, say I, you
counsel well: note to be rul'd by my conscience, I should stay
with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark, is
a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I
-- 22 --
should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence,
is the devil himself: Certainly, the Jew is the very devil
incarnation; note and, in my conscience, my conscience
is but note a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me
to stay with the Jew: the fiend gives the more friendly
counsel; I will run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, note
I will run.
Enter old Gobbo, his Father, with a Basket.
Fat.
Master young man, you, I pray you, which is
the way to master Jew's?
&clquo;Clo.
&clquo;O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!
who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel-blind,
knows me not: I will try confusions note with him.&crquo;
Fat.
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is
the way to master Jew's?
Clo.
Turn up on note your right hand, at the next turning,
but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry,
at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn
down indirectly to the note Jew's house.
Fat.
By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit.
Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with
him, dwell with him, or no?
Clo.
Talk you of young master Launcelot?—&clquo;Mark
me now; now will I raise the waters:&crquo;—Talk you of
young master Launcelot?
Fat.
No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father,
though I say it note, is an honest exceeding poor man,
and, God be thanked, well to live.
Clo.
Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of
young master Launcelot.
Fat.
Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. note
-- 23 --
Clo.
But, I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech
you; Talk you of young master Launcelot?
Fat.
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
Clo.
Ergo, note master Launcelot, talk not of master Launcelot,
father; for the young gentleman (according to
fates, and destinies, and such odd sayings, the sisters
three, and such branches of learning) is, indeed note, deceased;
or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to
heaven.
Fat.
Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff
of my age, my very prop.
Clo.
Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff,
or a prop?—Do you know me, father?
Fat.
Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy (God rest
his soul!) alive, or dead?
Clo.
Do you not know me, father?
Fat.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.
Clo.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might
fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father, that knows
his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
your son: give me your blessing; truth will come to
light; murther cannot be hid long, a man's son may;
but, in the end, truth note will out. note
Fat.
Pray you note sir, stand up; I am sure, you are not
Launcelot my boy.
Clo.
Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it,
but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy
that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.
Fat.
I cannot think, you are my son.
Clo.
I know not what I shall think of that: but I
am Launcelot, the Jew's man; and, I am sure, Margery,
-- 24 --
your wife, is my mother.
Fat.
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if
thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
Lord worship'd he note be, what a beard hast thou got! thou
hast got more hair on thy chin, than Dobbin my fil-horse note
has on note his tail.
Clo.
It should seem then, that Dobbin's tail grows
backward; I am sure, he had more hair of his tail, than
I have of my face, when I last note saw him.
Fat.
Lord, how art thou chang'd! How dost thou
and thy master agree? I have brought him a present;
How 'gree note you now?
Clo.
Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have
set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest 'till I have
run some ground: My master's a very Jew; Give him a
present! give him a halter: I am famish'd in his service;
you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father,
I am glad you are come; give me your present to one
master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries;
if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any
ground.—O rare fortune! here comes the man:—to him,
father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.
Enter Bassanio, with a Servant, and other Followers.
Bas.
You may do so; but let it be so hasted, that
supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock: See
these &dagger2; letters deliver'd; put the liveries to making; and
desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
[to a Follower, who bows, and goes out.
Clo.
To him, father.
Fat.
God bless your worship!
Bas.
Gramercy; Would'st thou ought with me?
-- 25 --
Fat.
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,—
Clo.
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man;
that would, sir, as my father shall specify.
Fat.
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would
say, to serve—
Clo.
Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the
Jew, and have a desire as my father shall specify.
Fat.
His master and he (saving your worship's reverence)
are scarce cater-cousins:
Clo.
To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew,
having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father,
being I hope an old man, shall fruitify unto you.
Fat.
I have here a dish of doves, that I would bestow
upon your worship; and my suit is,—
Clo.
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself,
as your worship shall know by this honest old man;
and, though I say it, though old man, yet, poor man,
my father.
Bas.
One speak for both;—What would you?
Clo.
Serve you, sir.
Fat.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
Bas.
I know thee well, thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day,
And hath prefer'd thee; if it be preferment,
To leave a rich Jew's service to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.
Clo.
The old proverb is very well parted between
my master Shylock and you, sir; you have the grace of
God, sir, and he hath enough.
Bas.
Thou speak'st it well: Go, father, with thy son;
Take leave of thy old master, and enquire
My lodging out:—give him a livery
-- 26 --
More garded than his fellows; see it done.
Clo.
Father, in:—I cannot get a service, no; I have
ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy14Q0271
have a fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon a
book, I shall have good fortune,—Go to, here's a simple
line of life! here's a small trifle of wives: alas, fifteen
wives is nothing; eleven widows note, and nine maids,
is a simple coming in for one man: and then, to 'scape note
drowning thrice; and to be in peril of my life with the
edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes! Well, if
fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this geer.—
Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the
twinkling of an eye. note
[Exeunt Clown, and Father.
Bas.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this;
These things being bought, and orderly bestow'd,
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
My best-esteem'd acquaintance; hye thee, go. note
Ser.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
Enter Gratiano.
Gra.
Where is your master?
Ser.
Yonder, sir, he walks.
[Exit Servant.
Gra.
Signior Bassanio,—
Bas.
Gratiano!
Gra.
I have a note suit to you.
Bas.
You have obtain'd it.
Gra.
Nay, you must not deny me; I must go
With you to Belmont.
Bas.
Why, then you must: But hear thee, Gratiano;
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice;—
Parts, that become thee happily enough,
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
But where thou art not known, why, there they show note
-- 27 --
Something too liberal;—pray thee note, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
Thy skipping spirit; lest, through thy wild behaviour,
I be misconstru'd in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes. note
Gra.
Signior Bassanio, hear me:
If I note do not put on a sober habit,
Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely;
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
Thus † with my hat, and sigh, and say amen;
Use all the observance of civility,
Like one well study'd in a sad ostent
To please his grandam, never trust me more.
Bas.
Well, we shall see your bearing.
Gra.
Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gage me
By what we do to-night.
Bas.
No, that were pity;
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
That purpose merriment: But fare you well, note
I have some business.
Gra.
And I must to Lorenzo, and the rest;
But we will visit you at supper-time.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The same. A Room in Shylock's House.
Enter Jessica, and Clown.
Jes.
I am sorry, thou wilt leave my father so;
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness:
But fare thee well; there is a ducat for &dagger2; thee.
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
-- 28 --
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest;
Give him this &dagger2; letter, do it secretly,
And so farewel; I would not have my father
See me in note talk with thee.
Clo.
Adieu; tears exhibit my tongue; most beautiful
pagan, most sweet Jew! if a christian did not note play the
knave, and get thee, I am much deceived: but, adieu;
these foolish drops do something note drown my manly spirit;
adieu!
Jes.
Farewel, good Launcelot.—
[Exit Clown.
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me,
To be asham'd to be my father's child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners: O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife;
Become a christian, and thy loving wife.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
The same. A Street.
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Solanio, and Salerino.
Lor.
Nay, we will slink away in supper-time;
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
Gra.
We have not made good preparation.
Sal.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
Sol.
'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd;
And better, in my mind, not undertook.
Lor.
'Tis now but four o'clock, we have two hours
To furnish us:—Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
Enter Clown, with a Letter.
Clo.
An it shall please note you to break up this &dagger2;, it
shall seem to signify.
-- 29 --
Lor.
I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
And whiter note than the paper it writ on,
Is the note fair hand that writ.
Gra.
Love-news, i' faith.
Clo.
By your leave, sir.
Lor.
Whither go'st thou?
Clo.
Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to
sup to-night with my new master the christian.
Lor.
Hold here, take &dagger2; this: tell gentle Jessica,
I will not fail her; speak it privately; go.—
Gentlemen,
[Exit Clown.
Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.
Sal.
Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
Sol.
And so will I.
Lor.
Meet me, and Gratiano,
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
Sal.
'Tis good we do so.
[Exeunt Sal. and Sol.
Gra.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
Lor.
I must needs tell thee all: she hath directed
How I shall take her from her father's house;
What gold, and jewels, she is furnish'd with;
What page's suit she hath in readiness.
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake:
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,—
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me; peruse this &dagger2;, as thou go'st:
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The same. Before Shylock's Door.
-- 30 --
Enter Shylock, and Clown.
Shy.
Well, thou shalt see note, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—
What, Jessica!—thou shalt not gormandize,
As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—
And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out;—
Why, Jessica, I say!
Clo.
Why, Jessica!
Shy.
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
Clo.
Your worship was wont to tell me, I could do
nothing without bidding.
Enter Jessica.
Jes.
Call you? What is your will?
Shy.
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica;
There are my keys:—But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love; they flatter me:
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal christian.—Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house:—I am right loth to go;
There is some ill a brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
Clo.
I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth
expect your reproach:
Shy.
So do I his.
Clo.
And they have conspired together,—I will not
say, you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not
for nothing that my nose fell a bleeding on black monday
last,14Q0272 at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that
year on ash-wednesday was four year in the afternoon.
Shy.
What, are there masques? note—Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; And when you hear the drum,
And the vile squealing note of the wry-neck'd fife,
-- 31 --
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the publick street,
To gaze on christian fools with varnish'd faces:
But shut my house's ears, I mean, my casements;
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
My sober house.—By Jacob's staff, I swear,
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
But I will go.—Go you before me, sirrah;
Say, I will come.
Clo.
I will go before, sir.—
Mistress, look out at window note, for all this;
There will come a christian by,
Will be worth a Jewess' eye.
[Exit Clown.
Shy.
What says that fool of Hagar's off-spring, ha?
Jes.
His words were, Farewel, mistress; nothing else.
Shy.
The patch is kind enough; but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he note sleeps by day
More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me:
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one, that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse.—Well, Jessica, go in;
Perhaps, I will return immediately;
Do as I bid you, shut doors after you:
Fast bind, fast find;
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
[Exit.
Jes.
Farewel; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
The same.
Enter Gratiano, and Salerino, masqu'd.
Gra.
This is the pent-house, under which Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand. note
-- 32 --
Sal.
His hour is almost past.
Gra.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
Sal.
O, ten times faster Venus' pidgeons fly,
To seal love's bonds new made; than they are wont,
To keep obliged faith unforfeited.
Gra.
That ever holds; Who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse, that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? all things that are
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
How like a younger, or a prodigal,
The skarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hug'd note and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like a prodigal doth she return;
With over-weather'd note ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
Enter Lorenzo, masqu'd.
Sal.
Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter.
Lor.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I'll watch as long for you then. Come, approach;
Here dwells my father Jew:—Ho! who's within?
Enter Jessica, above, in Boy's Cloaths.
Jes.
Who are you? tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
Lor.
Lorenzo, and thy love.
Jes.
Lorenzo, certain; and my love, indeed;
For who love I so much? and now who knows,
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
-- 33 --
Lor.
Heaven, and thy thoughts, are witness that thou art.
Jes.
Here, catch this &dagger2; casket, it is worth note the pains.
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham'd of my exchange:
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.
Lor.
Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
Jes.
What, must I hold a candle to my shames? note
They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light.
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love;
And I should be obscur'd.
Lor.
So are you note, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once;
For the close night doth play the runaway,
And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.
Jes.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some more ducats, and be with you straight.
[Exit, from above.
Gra.
Now, by my hood, a gentle note, and no Jew.
Lor.
Beshrow note me, but I love her heartily:
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.—
Enter Jessica, below.
What, art thou come?—On, gentlemen note, away;
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit, with Jessica, and Salerino.
-- 34 --
Enter Antonio.
Ant.
Who's there? note
Gra.
Signior, Antonio?
Ant.
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you:
No masque to-night; the wind is come about,
Bassanio presently will go aboard:
I have sent twenty out to seek for you. note
Gra. note
I am glad on't; I desire no more delight,
Than to be under sail, and gone to-night.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Flourish. Enter Prince of Morocco, with Portia,
and both their Trains.
Por.
Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince:—
Now make your choice.
Mor.
This first, of gold, who this inscription bears;—
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many note men desire.
The second, silver, which this promise carries;—
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt;—
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.—
How shall I know if I do choose the right. note
Por.
The one of them contains my picture, prince;
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Mor.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;
I will survey the inscriptions back again:
What says this leaden casket?
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.
Must give,—For what? for lead? hazard for lead?
This casket threatens: Men, that hazard all,
-- 35 --
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
I'll then nor give, nor hazard, ought for lead.
What says the silver, with her virgin hue?
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.
As much as he deserves,—Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand:
If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady;
And yet to be afeard of note my deserving
Were but a weak disabling of myself.
As much as I deserve,—Why, that's the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding;
But, more than these, in love I do deserve. note
What if I stray'd no farther, but chose here?
Let's see once more this saying 'grav'd in gold.
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire.
Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her:
From the four corners of the earth they come,
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint:
The Hyrcanian note deserts, and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia, are as through-fares now,
For princes to come view fair Portia:
The watry kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spets in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits; but they come,
As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is't like, that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation,
To think so base a thought; it were too gross
-- 36 --
To rib her searcloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think, in silver she's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalu'd to try'd gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a jem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin, that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold; but that's insculpt upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within.—Deliver me the key;
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
Por.
There, take &dagger2; it, prince; and if my form lye there,
Then I am yours.
Mor.
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scrowl? I'll read the writing. note
All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do note worms enfold.14Q0273
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrol'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold.
Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
Then, farewel, heat; and, welcome, frost.—
Portia, adieu! I have too griev'd a heart
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.
[Exit.
Por.
A gentle riddance:—Draw the curtains, go:—
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VIII.
Venice. A Street.
-- 37 --
Enter Solanio, and Salerino.
Sal.
Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail;
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is not.
Sol.
The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the duke;
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
Sal.
He came too note late, the ship was under sail:
But there the duke was given to understand,
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous note Jessica:
Besides, Antonio certify'd the duke,
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
Sol.
I never heard a passion so confus'd,
So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
My daughter,—O my ducats! O my daughter!
Fled with a christian,—O my christian ducats!—
Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!—
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Of double ducats, stoln from me by my daughter!
And jewels; two stones, two rich note and precious stones,
Stoln by my daughter!—Justice! find the girl!
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats!
Sal.
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying,—his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
Sol.
Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.
Sal.
Marry, well remember'd:
I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday;
Who told me,—in the narrow seas, that part
The French and English, there miscarried
A vessel of our country, richly fraught:
-- 38 --
I thought upon Antonio, when he told me;
And wish'd in silence, that it were not his.
Sol.
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
Yet do not suddenly, lest it note may grieve him.
Sal.
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
Bassanio told him,—he would make some speed
Of his return; he answer'd,—Do not so,
Slubber not note business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time;
And for the Jew's bond, which he hath of me,
Let it not enter in your mind of love:14Q0274
Be merry; and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there:
And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
And with affection wondrous sensible
He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted.
Sol.
I think, he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee note, let us go and find him out,
And quicken his embraced heaviness
With some delight or other.
Sal.
Do we so.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IX.
Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Enter Nerissa, and a Servant.
Ner.
Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight;
The prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,
And comes to his election presently.
Flourish. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains.
-- 39 --
Por.
Behold, there † stand the caskets, noble prince:
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd;
But if you fail, note without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
Arr.
I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:
First, never to unfold to any one
Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail
Of the right casket, never in my life
To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly,
If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
Immediately to leave you and be gone.
Por.
To these injunctions every one doth swear,
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
Arr.
And so have I addrest me: Fortune now
To my heart's hope!—Gold, silver, and base lead.
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath:
You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard.
What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:—
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire.
What many men desire,—That many may be meant
Of the note fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
Which pries not to the interiour, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits,
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves
-- 40 --
And well said too; For who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O, that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not deriv'd corruptly! and that clear honour
Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover, that stand bare?
How many be commanded, that command?
How much low peasantry note would then be gleaned
From the true seed of honour? and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff note and ruin of the times,
To be new varnish'd? note Well, but to my choice:
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves:
I will assume desert;—Give me a key for this;—
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
&clquo;Por.
&clquo;Too long a pause for that which you find there.&crquo;
Arr.
What's here? the portrait of a blinking ideot,
Presenting me a schedule? note I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia?
How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings?
Who chooseth me, shall have as much as he deserves:
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
Is that my prize? note are my deserts no better?
Por.
To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,
And of opposed natures.
Arr.
What is note here?
The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times try'd that judgment note is,
That did never choose amis:
Some there be, that shadows kis;
Such have but a shadow's blis:
-- 41 --
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So farewel, sir, note you are sped.
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here:
With one fool's head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.—
Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroath.
[Exeunt Arragon, and Train.
Por.
Thus hath the candle sindg'd the moath.—
O these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom note by their wit to lose.
Ner.
The ancient saying is no heresy;—
Hanging, and wiving, goes by destiny.
Por.
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
Where is my lady?
Por.
Here; What would my lord?
Ser.
Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify the approaching of his lord:
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets;
To wit, besides commends, and courteous breath note,
Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen
So likely an embassador of love:
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show note how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrier note comes before his lord.
Por.
No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard,
-- 42 --
Thou wilt say anon, he is some kin to thee,
Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.—
Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see
Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly
Ner.
Bassanio, lord love, if thy will it be!
[Exeunt.
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
