Introductory matter
note
-- 471 --
INTRODUCTION.
The two plots of “The Merchant of Venice” are found as distinct novels in various ancient foreign authorities, but no English original of either of them of the age of Shakespeare has been discovered. That there were such originals is highly probable, but if so they have perished with many other relics of our popular literature. Whether the separate incidents, relating to the bond and to the caskets, were ever combined in the same novel, at all as Shakespeare combined them in his drama, cannot of course be determined. Steevens asserts broadly, that “a play comprehending the distinct plots of Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice had been exhibited long before he commenced a writer;” and the evidence he adduces is a passage from Gosson's “School of Abuse,” 1579, where he especially praises two plays “showne at the Bull,” one called “The Jew,” and the other “Ptolome:” of the former Gosson states, that it “represented the greedinesse of worldly chusers, and bloody minds of usurers.” (Shakespeare Society's Reprint, p. 30.) The terms, “worldly chusers,” may certainly have reference to the choice of the caskets; and the conduct of Shylock may very well be intended by the words, “bloody minds of usurers.” It is possible, therefore, that a theatrical performance should have existed, anterior to the time of Shakespeare, in which the separate plots were united; and it is not unlikely that some novel had been published which gave the same incidents in a narrative form. “On the whole,” says the learned and judicious Tyrwhitt, “I am inclined to suspect that Shakespeare followed some hitherto unknown novelist, who had saved him the trouble of working up the two stories into one.”
note
Both stories are found separately in the Latin Gesta Romanorum, with considerable variations: that of the bond is chap. xlviii. of MS. Harl. 2270, as referred as referred to by Tyrwhitt; and that of the caskets is chap. xcix. of the same collection. The Pecorone of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino also contains a novel very similar to that of “The Merchant of Venice,” with respect to the bond, the disguise and agency of Portia, and the gift of the ring. This narrative (Giorn. iv. nov. 1) was written as early as the year 1378, but not printed in Italy until
-- 472 --
1554; and it is remarkable that the scene of certain romantic adventures, in which the hero was engaged, is there laid in the dwelling of a lady at Belmont. These adventures seem afterwards to have been changed, in some English version, for the incidents of the caskets. In Boccaccio's Decameron (Giorn. x., nov. 1) a choice of caskets is introduced, but it does not in other respects resemble the choice as we find it in Shakespeare; while the latter, even to the inscriptions, is extremely like the history in the Gesta Romanorum.
The earliest notice in English, with a date, of any circumstances connected with the bond and its forfeiture, is contained in “The Orator: handling a Hundred several Discourses,” a translation from the French of Alexander Silvayn, by Anthony Munday, who published it under the name of Lazarus Piot, in 1596, 4to. There, with the head of “Declamation 95,” we find one “Of a Jew, who would for his debt have a pound of flesh of a Christian;” and it is followed by “The Christian's Answer,” but nothing is said of the incidents, out of which these “declamations” arose. Of the old ballad of “The Crueltie of Gernutus, a Jewe,” in “Percy's Reliques,” I. 228 (edit. 1812) no dated edition is known; but most readers will be inclined to agree with Warton (“Observations on the Faerie Queene,” I. 128,) that it was not founded upon Shakespeare's play, and was anterior to it: it might owe its origin to the ancient drama of “The Jew,” mentioned by Gosson. “Henslowe's Diary,” under date of 25th Aug. 1594, contains an entry relating to the performance of “The Venetian Comedy,” which Malone conjectured might mean “The Merchant of Venice;” and it is a circumstance not to be passed over, that in 1594 the company of actors to which Shakespeare was attached was playing at the theatre in Newington Butts, in conjunction, as far as we can now learn, with the company of which Henslowe was chief manager.
Meres has “The Merchant of Venice” in his list, which was published in 1598, and we have no means of knowing how long prior to that date it was written. If it were “The Venetian Comedy” of Henslowe, it was in a course of performance in August, 1594. The earliest entry regarding “The Merchant of Venice” in the Stationers' Register is curious, from its particularity:—
“22 July, 1598, James Robertes.] A booke of the Merchaunt of Venyce, or otherwise called the Jewe of Venyse. Provided that yt bee not prynted by the said James Robertes, or anye other whatsoever, without lycence first had from the right honourable the Lord Chamberlen.”
Shakespeare was one of the players of the Lord Chamberlain, and the object seems to have been to prevent the publication of the play without the consent of the company, to be signified through the nobleman
-- 473 --
under whose patronage they acted. This caution was given two years before “The Merchant of Venice” actually came from the press: we find it published in 1600, both by J. Roberts and by Thomas Heyes, in favour of the last of whom we meet with another entry in the Stationers' books, without any proviso, dated,—
“28 Oct., 1600, Tho. Haies.] The booke of the Merchant of Venyce.”
By this time the “licence” of the Lord Chamberlain for printing the play had probably been obtained. At the bottom of the title-page of Roberts's edition of 1600, no place is stated where it was to be purchased: it is merely, “Printed by J. Roberts, 1600;” while the imprint to the edition of Heyes informs us that it was “printed by I. R.,” and that it was “to be sold in Pauls Church-yard,” &c. I. R., the printer of the edition of Heyes, was, most likely, J. Roberts; but it is entirely a distinct impression to that which appeared in the same year with the name of Roberts. The edition of Roberts is, on the whole, to be preferred to that of Heyes; but the editors of the folio of 1623 indisputably employed that of Heyes, adopting various misprints, but inserting also several improvements of the text. These are pointed out in our notes in the course of the play. The similarity between the names of Salanio, Salarino, and Salerio, in the Dramatis Personæ, has led to some confusion of the speakers in all the copies, quarto and folio, which it has not always been found easy to set right.
“The Merchant of Venice” was performed before James I., on Shrove-Sunday, and again on Shrove-Tuesday, 1605: hence we have a right to infer that it gave great satisfaction at court. The fact is thus recorded in the original account of expenses, made out by the Master of the Revels, and still preserved in the Audit Office:—
“By his Matis Plaiers. On Shrovsunday a play of the Marchant of Venis.”
“By his Matis Players. On Shrovtusday a play cauled the Martchant of Venis againe, commanded by the Kings Matie.”
The name of Shaxberd, for Shakespeare, as “the poet which made the play,” is added in the margin opposite both these entries. Notwithstanding the popularity of this drama before the closing of the theatres in 1642, it seems to have been so much forgotten soon after the Restoration, that in 1664, Thomas Jordan made a ballad out of the story of it in his “Royal Arbor of Loyal Poesie,” and thought himself at liberty to pervert the original, by making the Jew's daughter the principal instrument of punishing her own father: at the trial, she takes the office which Shakespeare assigns to Portia.
-- 474 --
1 note.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Duke of Venice.
Prince of Morocco, Suitor to Portia.
Prince of Arragon, Suitor to Portia.
ANTONIO, the Merchant of Venice:
BASSANIO, his Friend.
GRATIANO, Friend to Antonio and Bassanio.
SALANIO [Solanio], Friend to Antonio and Bassanio.
SALARINO, Friend to Antonio and Bassanio.
LORENZO, in love with Jessica.
SHYLOCK, a Jew:
TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown.
OLD GOBBO [Gobbo], Father to Launcelot.
SALERIO, a Messenger.
LEONARDO, Servant to Bassanio.
BALTHAZAR [Balthasar], Servant to Portia.
STEPHANO, Servant to Portia.
PORTIA, a rich Heiress.
NERISSA, her Waiting-woman.
JESSICA, Daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Clerk, Jailors, Servants, and other Attendants.
SCENE, partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont.
-- 475 --
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Venice. A Street.
Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio.
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.
Salar.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean,
There, where your argosies1 note with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan.
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;
-- 476 --
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me sad.
Salar.
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 sand2 note,
Vailing her high top3 note 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, 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.
Salan.
Why, then you are in love4 note.
Ant.
Fie, fie!
Salan.
Not in love neither? Then let's say, you are sad,
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy
-- 477 --
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 show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.
Salan.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well:
We leave you now with better company.
Salar.
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.
Salar.
Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass.
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when?
You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
Salar.
We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.
Lor.
My lord 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.
Bass.
I will not fail you.
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 marvellously chang'd.
Ant.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man5 note must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
-- 478 --
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 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 love that speaks;—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd 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 bark!”
O! my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; when, I am very sure7 note,
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. 11Q0283
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool-gudgeon8 note, this opinion.—
Come, good Lorenzo.—Fare ye well, awhile:
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.
-- 479 --
Ant.
Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear 11Q02849 note.
Gra.
Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Ant.
It is that:—any thing now10 note.
Bass.
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing,
more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as
two grains of wheat1 note 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?
Bass.
'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing 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, 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,
-- 480 --
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 extremest means,
Lie 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 childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost; 11Q0285 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.
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 more wrong2 note
,
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 prest3 note 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 undervalued
-- 481 --
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 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 inquire, 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. An Apartment 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 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 mean4 note:
-- 482 --
superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency
lives longer.
Por.
Good sentences, and well pronounced.
Ner.
They would be better, if well followed.
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 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 fashion5 note 11Q0286 to choose me a husband.
—O me! the word choose! I may neither choose whom I
would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living
daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.—Is it 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 be chosen6 note by any
rightly, but one whom 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 namest
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 shoe him
himself. I am much afraid, my lady his mother played
false with a smith.
-- 483 --
Ner.
Then, is there the county Palatine.
Por.
He doth nothing but frown, as who should say,
“An you 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 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;
a better bad habit of frowning than the count
Palatine: he is every man in no man; if a throstle
sing, he falls straight 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 him7 note.
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 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 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 11Q0287 lord, his
neighbour8 note?
-- 484 --
Por.
That he hath a neighbourly charity in him;
for he borrowed 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 surety, and sealed
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 married 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 reasonable; for there is not one among them but I
dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a
fair departure9 note.
-- 485 --
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 was
he called.
Ner.
True, madam: he, of all the men that ever
my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a
fair lady.
Por.
I remember him well, and I remember him
worthy of thy praise.—How now? what news1 note?
Enter a Servant.
Serv.
The four strangers seek for you2 note, madam, to
take their leave; and there is a forerunner 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 farewell, 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.
Venice. A public Place.
Enter Bassanio and Shylock.
Shy.
Three thousand ducats,—well.
Bass.
Ay, sir, for three months.
-- 486 --
Shy.
For three months,—well.
Bass.
For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.
Shy.
Antonio 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
Antonio bound.
Bass.
Your answer to that.
Shy.
Antonio 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 to the Indies:
I understand moreover upon the Rialto, he hath a third
at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures
he hath squandered abroad; but ships are but boards,
sailors but men: there be land-rats, and water-rats,
water-thieves, and land-thieves; 11Q0288 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 assured you may.
Shy.
I will be assured, I may; and, that I may be
assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?
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. 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?
-- 487 --
Enter Antonio.
Bass.
This is signior Antonio.
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 hip,
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 11Q02893 note,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!
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 Antonio.
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Ant.
Shylock, albeit I neither lend4 note nor borrow,
By taking, nor by giving of excess,
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom.—Is he yet possess'd,
How much you would5 note
?
-- 488 --
Shy.
Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
Ant.
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:
Methought, you said, you neither lend nor borrow
Upon advantage.
Ant.
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.
Ant.
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 eanlings which were streak'd, and pied,
Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,
In 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 kind,
He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,
Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time
Fall party-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:
And thrift is blessing6 note, if men steal it not.
Ant.
This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for;
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?
-- 489 --
Or is your gold and silver, ewes and rams?
Shy.
I cannot tell: I make it breed as fast.—
But note me, signior.
Ant.
Mark you this, Bassanio,
The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.
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! 11Q0290
Shy.
Three thousand ducats;—'tis a good round sum.
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.
Ant.
Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you7 note?
Shy.
Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto8 note, you have rated me
About my monies, and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me—misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
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 lend9 note 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
-- 490 --
You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much monies?”
Ant.
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 for barren metal1 note of his friend?
But lend it rather to thine enemy;
Who if he break, thou may'st with better face
Exact the penalty2 note.
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.
Ant.
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 me3 note.
Ant.
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 dwell in my necessity.
Ant.
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 this bond.
-- 491 --
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.
Ant.
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 straight;
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
I will be with you.
[Exit.
Ant.
Hie thee, gentle Jew.
The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind4 note.
Bass.
I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind.
Ant.
Come on: in this there can be no dismay,
My ships come home a month before the day.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Belmont. An Apartment in Portia's House.
Enter the Prince of Morocco5 note, and his followers; Portia, Nerissa, and other of her Train. Flourish Cornets.
Mor.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
-- 492 --
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun, 11Q0291
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phœbus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love,
To prove whose blood is reddest, his, or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love, I swear,
The best regarded virgins of our clime
Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
Por.
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes:
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing;
But, if my father had not scanted me,
And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair,
As any comer I have look'd on yet,
For my affection.
Mor.
Even for that I thank you:
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets,
To try my fortune. By this scimitar,—
That slew the Sophy, and a Persian prince,
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,—
I would out-stare the sternest eyes that look6 note,
Out-brave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
-- 493 --
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice,
Which is the better man? the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his page 11Q02927 note;
And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.
Por.
You must take your chance;
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage: therefore be advis'd.
Mor.
Nor will not: come, bring me unto my chance.
Por.
First, forward to the temple: after dinner
Your hazard shall be made.
Mor.
Good fortune then,
[Cornets.
To make me blest, or cursed'st among men!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Venice. A Street.
Enter Launcelot Gobbo8 note.
Laun.
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, 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.” Well, the most courageous fiend 11Q0293 bids
-- 494 --
me pack; “Via!” says the fiend; “away!” says the
fiend; “for the heavens, 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,
budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend: “budge
not,” says my conscience. Conscience, say I, you counsel
well; fiend, say I, you counsel well9 note: to be ruled 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 should be ruled by the fiend,
who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly,
the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my
conscience, my conscience is but 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; I will run.
Enter Old Gobbo, with a Basket.
Gob.
Master, young man, you; I pray you, which is
the way to master Jew's?
Laun. [Aside.]
O heavens! this is my true begotten
father, who, being more than sand-blind1 note, high-gravel
blind, knows me not:—I will try confusions with him2 note.
Gob.
Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which is
the way to master Jew's?
Laun.
Turn up on your right hand at the next turning,
but at the next turning of all, on your left; marry,
-- 495 --
at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down
indirectly to the Jew's house.
Gob.
By God's sonties3 note, 'twill be a hard way to hit.
Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells
with him, dwell with him, or no?
Laun.
Talk you of young master Launcelot?—[Aside.]
Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.—[To him.]
Talk you of young master Launcelot?
Gob.
No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,
though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man; and,
God be thanked, well to live.
Laun.
Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk
of young master Launcelot.
Gob.
Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir4 note.
Laun.
But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech
you, talk you of young master Launcelot?
Gob.
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
Laun.
Ergo, 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, deceased;
or, as you would say, in plain terms, gone to
heaven.
Gob.
Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff
of my age, my very prop.
Laun. [Aside.]
Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovelpost,
a staff, or a prop?—[To him.] Do you know me,
father?
Gob.
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?
Laun.
Do you not know me, father?
Gob.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
Laun.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might
fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows
-- 496 --
his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
your son. [Kneels.] Give me your blessing: truth will
come to light; murder cannot be hid long, a man's son
may, but in the end truth will out.
Gob.
Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you are not
Launcelot, my boy.
Laun.
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.
Gob.
I cannot think you are my son.
Laun.
I know not what I shall think of that; but I
am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and, I am sure, Margery,
your wife, is my mother.
Gob.
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn,
if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and
blood. Lord! worshipp'd might he be! what a beard
hast thou got: thou hast got more hair on thy chin,
than Dobbin my phill-horse5 note has on his tail.
Laun.
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 saw him.
Gob.
Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou
and thy master agree? I have brought him a present.
How agree you now?
Laun.
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.
-- 497 --
Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and Followers.
Bass.
You may do so;—but let it be so hasted, that
supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock.
See these letters delivered: put the liveries to making,
and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
[Exit a Servant.
Laun.
To him, father.
Gob.
God bless your worship!
Bass.
Gramercy. Would'st thou aught with me?
Gob.
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,—
Laun.
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man,
that would, sir,—as my father shall specify.
Gob.
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say,
to serve—
Laun.
Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the
Jew, and have a desire,—as my father shall specify.
Gob.
His master and he (saving your worship's reverence,)
are scarce cater-cousins.
Laun.
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 frutify unto you.
Gob.
I have here a dish of doves, that I would bestow
upon your worship; and my suit is,—
Laun.
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself,
as your lordship shall know by this honest old man;
and, though I say it, though old man, yet, poor man,
my father.
Bass.
One speak for both.—What would you?
Laun.
Serve you, sir.
Gob.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
Bass.
I know thee well: thou hast obtain'd thy suit.
Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day,
And hath preferr'd thee; if it be preferment,
To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.
Laun.
The old proverb is very well parted between
-- 498 --
my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace
of God, sir, and he hath enough.
Bass.
Thou speak'st it well.—Go, father, with thy son.—
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out.—Give him a livery
[To his followers.
More guarded6 note than his fellows': see it done.
Laun.
Father, in.—I cannot get a service,—no; I
have ne'er a tongue in my head.—Well; [Looking on
his palm;] if any man in Italy have a fairer table7 note,
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, and nine maids, is a simple
coming-in for one man; and then, to 'scape 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 gear.—
Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the
twinkling of an eye8 note.
[Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo.
Bass.
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: hie thee; go.
Leon.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
Enter Gratiano.
Gra.
Where is your master?
-- 499 --
Leon.
Yonder, sir, he walks.
[Exit Leonardo.
Gra.
Signior Bassanio!
Bass.
Gratiano.
Gra.
I have a suit to you.
Bass.
You have obtain'd it.
Gra.
You must not deny me. I must go with you
to Belmont.
Bass.
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
Something too liberal.—Pray thee, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour,
I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.
Gra.
Signior Bassanio, hear me:
If I 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 studied in a sad ostent9 note
To please his grandam, never trust me more.
Bass.
Well, we shall see your bearing.
Gra.
Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gage me
By what we do to-night.
Bass.
No, that were pity.
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
-- 500 --
That purpose merriment. But fare you well,
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 Launcelot.
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 thee.
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest;
Give him this letter; do it secretly,
And so farewell: I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee.
Laun.
Adieu!—tears exhibit my tongue.—Most
beautiful pagan,—most sweet Jew! If a Christian do
not play the knave, and get thee1 note, I am much deceived:
but, adieu! these foolish drops do somewhat
drown my manly spirit: adieu!
[Exit.
Jes.
Farewell, good Launcelot.—
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.
-- 501 --
SCENE IV.
The Same. A Street.
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio.
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.
Salar.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
Salan.
'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.—
Enter Launcelot, with a letter.
Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
Laun.
An it shall please you to break up this, it
shall seem to signify.
[Giving a letter.
Lor.
I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
And whiter than the paper it writ on,
Is the fair hand that writ.
Gra.
Love-news, in faith.
Laun.
By your leave, sir.
Lor.
Whither goest thou?
Laun.
Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to
sup to-night with my new master, the Christian.
Lor.
Hold here, take this.—Tell gentle Jessica,
I will not fail her:—speak it privately;
Go.—Gentlemen,
[Exit Launcelot.
Will you prepare you2 note for this masque to-night?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.
Salar.
Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
Salan.
And so will I.
Lor.
Meet me, and Gratiano,
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
-- 502 --
Salar.
'Tis good we do so.
[Exeunt Salar. and Salan.
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, as thou goest.
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The Same. Before Shylock's House.
Enter Shylock and Launcelot3 note.
Shy.
Well, thou shalt see; 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!
Laun.
Why, Jessica!
Shy.
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
Laun.
Your worship was wont to tell me, that I
could4 note do nothing without bidding.
-- 503 --
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 loath to go.
There is some ill a brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
Laun.
I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth
expect your reproach.
Shy.
So do I his.
Laun.
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, 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?—Hear you me, Jessica5 note:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife6 note,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,
But stop 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.
Laun.
I will go before, sir.—Mistress, look out at window, for all this;
-- 504 --
There will come a Christian by,
Will be worth a Jewess' eye7 note.
[Exit Laun.
Shy.
What says that fool of Hagar's offspring? ha!
Jes.
His words were, farewell, mistress; nothing else.
Shy.
The patch is kind enough; but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day8 note
More than the wild cat: 11Q0294 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.
Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
The Same.
Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued.
Gra.
This is the pent-house, under which Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand9 note.
Salar.
His hour is almost past.
Gra.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
Salar.
O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
-- 505 --
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 younker, or a prodigal,
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like a prodigal doth she return1 note;
With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
Enter Lorenzo.
Salar.
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.—Approach;
Here dwells my father Jew:—Ho! who's within?
Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes.
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 whom love I so much? And now who knows,
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
Lor.
Heaven, and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
Jes.
Here, catch this casket: it is worth the pains.
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham'd of my exchange;
-- 506 --
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?
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, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once;
For the close night doth play the run-away,
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 Gentile, and no Jew.
Lor.
Beshrew 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.
What, art thou come?—On, gentlemen; away!
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit with Jessica and Salarino.
Enter Antonio.
Ant.
Who's there?
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:
-- 507 --
I have sent twenty out to seek for you2 note.
Gra.
I am glad on't: I desire no more delight,
Than to be under sail, and gone to-night.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Belmont. An Apartment in Portia's House.
Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and both their Trains.
Por.
Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.—
Now make your choice.
Mor.
The first, of gold, who this inscription bears;
“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire 11Q02953 note.”
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?
Por.
The one of them contains my picture, prince:
If you choose that, then I am yours with all.
Mor.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see,
I will survey th' 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,
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
I'll then nor give, nor hazard, aught for lead.
-- 508 --
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 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.
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 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
Spits 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
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
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 insculp'd upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
-- 509 --
Lies all within.—Deliver me the key:
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
Por.
There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours.
[He unlocks the golden casket.
Mor.
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I'll read the writing.
“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 worms infold4 note.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold.”
Cold, indeed, and labour lost:
Then, farewell, 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.
Enter Salarino and Salanio.
Salar.
Why man, I saw Bassanio under sail:
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship, I'm sure, Lorenzo is not.
-- 510 --
Salan.
The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the duke,
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
Salar.
He came too late5 note, the ship was under sail:
But there the duke was given to understand,
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
Besides, Antonio certified the duke,
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
Salan.
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, stol'n from me by my daughter!
And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones,
Stol'n by my daughter!—Justice! find the girl!
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats!”
Salar.
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
Salan.
Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.
Salar.
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.
I thought upon Antonio when he told me,
And wish'd in silence that it were not his.
Salan.
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
Salar.
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;
-- 511 --
Slubber not business6 note 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.
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.
Salan.
I think, he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee, let us go, and find him out,
And quicken his embraced heaviness
With some delight or other.
Salar.
Do we so.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IX.
Belmont. An Apartment in Portia's House.
Enter Nerissa, with a Servitor.
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.
Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains. Flourish cornets.
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;
-- 512 --
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
Ar.
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.
Ar.
And so have I address'd me7 note. 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
By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather, 11Q0296 on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump8 note 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;”
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
-- 513 --
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 peasantry9 note would then be glean'd
From the true seed of honour; and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times,
To be new varnish'd! 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.
Por.
Too long a pause for that which you find there.
Ar.
What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
Presenting me a schedule? I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia!
How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings!
“Who chooseth me shall have1 note as much as he deserves.”
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?
Por.
To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,
And of opposed natures.
Ar.
What is here?
“The fire seven times tried this:
Seven times tried that judgment is,
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss.
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 begone: you are sped2 note.”
-- 514 --
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 wroth3 note.
[Exeunt Arragon, and Train.
Por.
Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom 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 Messenger4 note.
Mess.
Where is my lady?
Por.
Here; what would my lord?
Mess.
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,)
Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love.
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.
Por.
No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard,
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.
Ne.
Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be.
[Exeunt.
-- 515 --
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Venice. A Street.
Enter Salanio and Salarino.
Salan.
Now, what news on the Rialto?
Salar.
Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd, that Antonio
hath a ship of rich lading wreck'd on the narrow
seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place: a very
dangerous flat, and fatal, where the carcasses of many a
tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip, report, be
an honest woman of her word.
Salan.
I would she were as lying a gossip in that, as
ever knapped ginger5 note, or made her neighbours believe
she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is
true, without any slips of prolixity, or crossing the
plain high-way of talk, that the good Antonio, the
honest Antonio,—O, that I had a title good enough
to keep his name company!—
Salar.
Come, the full stop.
Salan.
Ha!—what say'st thou?—Why the end is, he
hath lost a ship.
Salar.
I would it might prove the end of his losses.
Salan.
Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil
cross my prayer; for here he comes in the likeness of
a Jew.—
Enter Shylock.
How now, Shylock? what news among the merchants?
Shy.
You knew, none so well, none so well as you,
of my daughter's flight.
Salar.
That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor
that made the wings she flew withal.
Salan.
And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird
-- 516 --
was fledg'd; and then, it is the complexion of them all
to leave the dam.
Shy.
She is damned for it.
Salar.
That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.
Shy.
My own flesh and blood to rebel!
Salan.
Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these
years?
Shy.
I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood6 note.
Salar.
There is more difference between thy flesh
and hers, than between jet and ivory; more between
your bloods, than there is between red wine and rhenish.
But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any
loss at sea or no?
Shy.
There I have another bad match: a bankrupt,
a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the
Rialto;—a beggar, that used to come so smug upon
the mart.—Let him look to his bond: he was wont to
call me usurer;—let him look to his bond: he was
wont to lend money 11Q0297 for a Christian courtesy;—let him
look to his bond.
Salar.
Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not
take his flesh: what's that good for?
Shy.
To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,
it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million7 note; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and
what's his reason8 note? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew
eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses,
affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with
the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed
-- 517 --
by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same
winter and summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us,
do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if
you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us,
shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest,
we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a
Christian, what is his humility? revenge. If a Christian
wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian
example? why, revenge. The villainy you teach
me, I will execute; and it shall go hard but I will
better the instruction.
Enter a Servant.
Serv.
Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house,
and desires to speak with you both.
Salar.
We have been up and down to seek him.
Salan.
Here comes another of the tribe: a third
cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew9 note.
[Exeunt Salan. Salar. and Servant.
Enter Tubal.
Shy.
How now, Tubal? what news from Genoa?
hast thou found my daughter?
Tub.
I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot
find her.
Shy.
Why there, there, there, there! a diamond gone,
cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort. The curse
never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till
now:—two thousand ducats in that; and other precious,
precious jewels.—I would, my daughter were dead at my
foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were10 note hearsed
-- 518 --
at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of
them?—Why, so;—and I know not what's spent in
the search1 note: Why thou—loss upon loss! the thief gone
with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no
satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring, but
what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs, but o' my breathing;
no tears, but o' my shedding.
Tub.
Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as
I heard in Genoa,—
Shy.
What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
Tub.
—hath an argosy cast away, coming from
Tripolis.
Shy.
I thank God! I thank God! Is it true? is it
true?
Tub.
I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped
the wreck.
Shy.
I thank thee, good Tubal.—Good news, good
news! ha! ha!—Where? in Genoa2 note?
Tub.
Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one
night, fourscore ducats.
Shy.
Thou stick'st a dagger in me. I shall never
see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting!
fourscore ducats!
Tub.
There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my
company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but
break.
Shy.
I am very glad of it. I'll plague him; I'll
torture him: I am glad of it.
Tub.
One of them showed me a ring, that he had of
your daughter for a monkey.
Shy.
Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it
was my turquoise; I had it of Leah, when I was a
bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilderness of
monkeys.
-- 519 --
Tub.
But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy.
Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal,
fee me an officer3 note; bespeak him a fortnight before. I
will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for were he
out of Venice, I can make what merchandize I will.
Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue: go, good
Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Belmont. An Apartment in Portia's House.
Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and their Attendants. The caskets set out.
Por.
I pray you tarry: pause a day or two,
Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
I lose your company: therefore, forbear a while.
There's something tells me, (but it is not love,)
I would not lose you, and you know yourself,
Hate counsels not in such a quality.
But lest you should not understand me well,
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,
I would detain you here some month or two,
Before you venture for me. I could teach you,
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
So will I never be: so may you miss me;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,
They have o'er-look'd me4 note
, and divided me;
One half of me is yours, the other half yours,—
-- 520 --
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours! O! these naughty times
Put bars between the owners and their rights;
And so, though yours, not yours.—Prove it so,
Let fortune go to hell for it,—not I.
I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time5 note
,
To eke it, and to draw it out in length,
To stay you from election. 11Q0298
Bass.
Let me choose;
For, as I am, I live upon the rack.
Por.
Upon the rack, Bassanio? then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.
Bass.
None, but that ugly treason of mistrust,
Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love.
There may as well be amity and life
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.
Por.
Ay, but, I fear, you speak upon the rack,
Where men enforced do speak any thing.
Bass.
Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
Por.
Well then, confess, and live.
Bass.
Confess, and love,
Had been the very sum of my confession.
O, happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance!
But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
Por.
Away then. I am lock'd in one of them:
If you do love me, you will find me out.—
Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof.—
Let music sound, while he doth make his choice;
Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,
Fading in music: that the comparison
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream,
-- 521 --
And watery death-bed for him. He may win,
And what is music then? then music is
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow
To a new-crowned monarch: such it is,
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day,
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,
With no less presence, but with much more love,
Than young Alcides, when he did redeem
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy
To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice,
The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,
With bleared visages, come forth to view
The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules!
Live thou, I live:—with much, much more dismay6 note
I view the fight, than thou that mak'st the fray.
A Song, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself.
Tell me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes7 note,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy's knell;
I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.
All.
Ding, dong, bell.
Bass.
—So may the outward shows be least themselves:
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,
But, being season'd with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
-- 522 --
What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
There is no vice8 note so simple, but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules, and frowning Mars,
Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;
And these assume but valour's excrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,
And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight;
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on
To entrap the wisest. 11Q0299 Therefore, thou gaudy gold9 note,
Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee.
Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,
Which rather threat'nest than dost promise aught,
Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence10 note,
-- 523 --
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence!
Por.
How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair,
And shuddering fear and green-ey'd jealousy.
O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy;
In measure rain thy joy1 note; scant this excess:
I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,
For fear I surfeit!
Bass.
What find I here?
[Opening the leaden casket.
Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,
Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here, in her hairs,
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men,
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes!—
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks, it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnish'd 11Q03002 note: yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance.—Here's the scroll,
The continent and summary of my fortune.
“You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair, and choose as true!
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content, and seek no new.
-- 524 --
If you be well pleas'd with this,
And hold your fortune for your bliss,
Turn you where your lady is,
And claim her with a loving kiss.”
A gentle scroll.—Fair lady, by your leave;
I come by note, to give, and to receive.
[Kissing her.
Like one of two contending in a prize,
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,
Hearing applause, and universal shout,
Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt
Whether those peals of praise be his or no;
So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so,
As doubtful whether what I see be true,
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.
Por.
You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand3 note,
Such as I am: though, for myself alone
I would not be ambitious in my wish,
To wish myself much better; yet for you
I would be trebled twenty times myself;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich,
That only to stand high in your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account: but the full sum of me
Is sum of nothing4 note; which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd:
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit
-- 525 --
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 11Q0301
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you, and yours
Is now converted: but now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours, my lord5 note. I give them with this ring,
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let it presage the ruin of your love,
And be my vantage to exclaim on you.
Bass.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words:
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;
And there is such confusion in my powers,
As after some oration, fairly spoke
By a beloved prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleased multitude;
Where every something, being blent together6 note,
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,
Express'd, and not express'd. But when this ring
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:
O! then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead.
Ner.
My lord and lady, it is now our time,
That have stood by, and seen our wishes prosper,
To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord, and lady!
Gra.
My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,
I wish you all the joy that you can wish,
For, I am sure, you can wish none from me;
And, when your honours mean to solemnize
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,
Even at that time I may be married too.
Bass.
With all my heart, so thou can'st get a wife.
Gra.
I thank your lordship, you have got me one.
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
-- 526 --
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;
You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,
And so did mine too, as the matter falls;
For wooing here, until I sweat again, 11Q0302
And swearing, till my very roof was dry
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
I got a promise of this fair one here,
To have her love, provided that your fortune
Achiev'd her mistress.
Por.
Is this true, Nerissa?
Ner.
Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.
Bass.
And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
Gra.
Yes, 'faith, my lord.
Bass.
Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.
Gra.
We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand
ducats.
Ner.
What! and stake down?
Gra.
No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.—
But who comes here? Lorenzo, and his infidel?
What! and my old Venetian friend, Salerio?
Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio7 note.
Bass.
Lorenzo, and Salerio, welcome hither,
If that the youth of my new interest here
Have power to bid you welcome.—By your leave
I bid my very friends and countrymen,
Sweet Portia, welcome.
Por.
So do I, my lord:
They are entirely welcome.
Lor.
I thank your honour.—For my part, my lord,
My purpose was not to have seen you here,
-- 527 --
But meeting with Salerio by the way,
He did entreat me, past all saying nay,
To come with him along.
Sale.
I did, my lord,
And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio
Commends him to you.
[Gives Bassanio a letter.
Bass.
Ere I ope his letter,
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.
Sale.
Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;
Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there
Will show you his estate8 note.
Gra.
Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.
Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice?
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?
I know, he will be glad of our success;
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.
Sale.
I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost!
Por.
There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,
That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek:
Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world
Could turn so much the constitution
Of any constant man. What, worse and worse?—
With leave, Bassanio; I am half yourself,
And I must freely have the half of any thing
That this same paper brings you.
Bass.
O sweet Portia!
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,
When I did first impart my love to you,
I freely told you, all the wealth I had
Ran in my veins—I was a gentleman:
And then I told you true, and yet, dear lady,
-- 528 --
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see
How much I was a braggart. When I told you
My state was nothing, I should then have told you,
That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,
I have engag'd myself to a dear friend,
Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy,
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;
The paper as the body of my friend,
And every word in it a gaping wound,
Issuing life-blood.—But is it true, Salerio?
Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?
From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,
From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?
And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch
Of merchant-marring rocks?
Sale.
Not one, my lord.
Besides, it should appear, that if he had
The present money to discharge the Jew,
He would not take it. Never did I know
A creature, that did bear the shape of man,
So keen and greedy to confound a man.
He plies the duke at morning, and at night,
And doth impeach the freedom of the state,
If they deny him justice: twenty merchants,
The duke himself, and the magnificoes
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him,
But none can drive him from the envious plea
Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond.
Jes.
When I was with him I have heard him swear
To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen,
That he would rather have Antonio's flesh,
Than twenty times the value of the sum
That he did owe him; and I know, my lord,
If law, authority, and power deny not,
It will go hard with poor Antonio.
Por.
Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
Bass.
The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,
-- 529 --
The best condition'd and unwearied spirit
In doing courtesies; 11Q0303 and one in whom
The ancient Roman honour more appears,
Than any that draws breath in Italy.
Por.
What sum owes he the Jew?
Bass.
For me, three thousand ducats.
Por.
What, no more?
Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond:
Double six thousand, and then treble that,
Before a friend of this description
Shall lose a hair9 note through Bassanio's fault.
First, go with me to church, and call me wife,
And then away to Venice to your friend;
For never shall you lie by Portia's side
With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold
To pay the petty debt twenty times over:
When it is paid, bring your true friend along.
My maid Nerissa and myself, mean time,
Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!
For you shall hence upon your wedding-day.
Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer;
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.—
But let me hear the letter of your friend.
Bass. [Reads.]1 note
“Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all
miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very
low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since in paying
it it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared
between you and I, if I might but see you at my death.
Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if your love do
not persuade you to come, let not my letter.”
Por.
O love! despatch all business, and begone.
-- 530 --
Bass.
Since I have your good leave to go away,
I will make haste; but till I come again,
No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,
Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Venice. A Street.
Enter Shylock, Salanio, Antonio, and Jailor.
Shy.
Jailor, look to him: tell not me of mercy.—
This is the fool that lent out money gratis2 note.—
Jailor, look to him.
Ant.
Hear me yet, good Shylock.
Shy.
I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond:
I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.
Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,
But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
The duke shall grant me justice.—I do wonder,
Thou naughty jailor, that thou art so fond3 note
To come abroad with him at his request.
Ant.
I pray thee, hear me speak.
Shy.
I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:
I'll have my bond, and therefore speak no more.
I'll not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To Christian intercessors. Follow not;
I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.
[Exit Shylock.
-- 531 --
Salan.
It is the most impenetrable cur,
That ever kept with men.
Ant.
Let him alone:
I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.
He seeks my life; his reason well I know.
I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures
Many that have at times made moan to me;
Therefore he hates me.
Salan.
I am sure, the duke
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
Ant.
The duke cannot deny the course of law;
For the commodity that strangers have
With us in Venice, if it be denied,
Will much impeach the justice of the state;
Since that the trade and profit of the city
Consisteth of all nations4 note. Therefore, go:
These griefs and losses have so 'bated me,
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
To-morrow to my bloody creditor.—
Well, jailor, on.—Pray God, Bassanio come
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthazar.
Lor.
Madam, although I speak it in your presence,
You have a noble and a true conceit
Of god-like amity; which appears most strongly
In bearing thus the absence of your lord.
-- 532 --
But, if you knew to whom you show this honour,
How true a gentleman you send relief,
How dear a lover of my lord, your husband,
I know, you would be prouder of the work,
Than customary bounty can enforce you.
Por.
I never did repent for doing good,
Nor shall not now: for in companions
That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,
There must be needs a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit;
Which makes me think, that this Antonio,
Being the bosom lover of my lord,
Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,
How little is the cost I have bestow'd,
In purchasing the semblance of my soul
From out the state of hellish cruelty5 note!
This comes too near the praising of myself,
Therefore, no more of it: hear other things.—
Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
The husbandry and manage of my house,
Until my lord's return: for mine own part,
I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow
To live in prayer and contemplation,
Only attended by Nerissa here,
Until her husband and my lord's return.
There is a monastery two miles off,
And there we will abide. I do desire you
Not to deny this imposition,
The which my love, and some necessity,
Now lays upon you.
Lor.
Madam, with all my heart:
I shall obey you in all fair commands.
Por.
My people do already know my mind,
And will acknowledge you and Jessica
-- 533 --
In place of lord Bassanio and myself.
So fare you well, till we shall meet again.
Lor.
Fair thoughts, and happy hours, attend on you!
Jes.
I wish your ladyship all heart's content.
Por.
I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd
To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica.—
[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo.
Now, Balthazar,
As I have ever found thee honest, true,
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
And use thou all the endeavour of a man,
In speed to Padua6 note: see thou render this
Into my cousin's hand, doctor Bellario;
And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed
Unto the Tranect7 note, to the common ferry
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,
But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.
Balth.
Madam, I go with all convenient speed.
[Exit.
Por.
Come on, Nerissa: I have work in hand,
That you yet know not of. We'll see our husbands,
Before they think of us.
Ner.
Shall they see us?
Por.
They shall, Nerissa: but in such a habit,
That they shall think we are accomplished
With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,
When we are both accoutred8 note like young men,
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,
And wear my dagger with the braver grace;
And speak between the change of man and boy,
-- 534 --
With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps
Into a manly stride; and speak of frays,
Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies,
How honourable ladies sought my love,
Which I denying, they fell sick and died;
I could not do withal9 note:—then, I'll repent,
And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them.
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,
That men shall swear, I have discontinued school
Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,
Which I will practise.
Ner.
Why, shall we turn to men?
Por.
Fie! what a question's that,
If thou wert near a lewd interpreter.
But come: I'll tell thee all my whole device
When I am in my coach, which stays for us
At the park gate; and therefore haste away,
For we must measure twenty miles to-day.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The Same. A Garden.
Enter Launcelot and Jessica.
Laun.
Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father
are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise
you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so
now I speak my agitation of the matter: therefore, be
of good cheer; for, truly, I think, you are damned.
There is but one hope in it that can do you any good,
and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
Jes.
And what hope is that, I pray thee?
Laun.
Marry, you may partly hope that your father
got you not; that you are not the Jew's daughter.
-- 535 --
Jes.
That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so
the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.
Laun.
Truly, then, I fear you are damned both by
father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your
father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother. Well, you
are gone both ways.
Jes.
I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made
me a Christian.
Laun.
Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians
enow before; e'en as many as could well live
one by another. This making of Christians will raise
the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we
shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.
Enter Lorenzo.
Jes.
I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say:
here he comes.
Lor.
I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot,
if you thus get my wife into corners.
Jes.
Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot
and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for
me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he
says, you are no good member of the commonwealth,
for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price
of pork.
Lor.
I shall answer that better to the commonwealth,
than you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the
Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. 11Q0304
Laun.
It is much, that the Moor should be more than
reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is,
indeed, more than I took her for.
Lor.
How every fool can play upon the word! I
think, the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence,
and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots.—
Go in, sirrah: bid them prepare for dinner.
Laun.
That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
-- 536 --
Lor.
Goodly lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then,
bid them prepare dinner.
Laun.
That is done too, sir; only, cover is the word.
Lor.
Will you cover then, sir?
Laun.
Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.
Lor.
Yet more quarrelling with occasion? Wilt thou
show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray
thee, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go
to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the
meat, and we will come in to dinner.
Laun.
For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for
the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to
dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall
govern.
[Exit Launcelot.
Lor.
O, dear discretion, how his words are suited!
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words; and I do know
A many fools, that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica1 note?
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion;
How dost thou like the lord Bassanio's wife?
Jes.
Past all expressing. It is very meet,
The lord Bassanio live an upright life,
For, having such a blessing in his lady,
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;
And, if on earth he do not mean it, then,
In reason he should never come to heaven2 note
.
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,
-- 537 --
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world
Hath not her fellow.
Lor.
Even such a husband
Hast thou of me, as she is for a wife.
Jes.
Nay, but ask my opinion, too, of that.
Lor.
I will anon; first, let us go to dinner.
Jes.
Nay, let me praise you, while I have a stomach.
Lor.
No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;
Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st3 note, 'mong other things
I shall digest it.
Jes.
Well, I'll set you forth.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Venice. A Court of Justice.
Enter the Duke; the Magnificoes; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salarino, Salanio, and others.
Duke.
What, is Antonio here?
Ant.
Ready, so please your grace.
Duke.
I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
Ant.
I have heard,
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach4 note, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
To suffer with a quietness of spirit,
-- 538 --
The very tyranny and rage of his.
Duke.
Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Salan.
He's ready at the door. He comes, my lord.
Enter Shylock.
Duke.
Make room, and let him stand before our face.—
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture5 note,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down,
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shy.
I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats? I'll not answer that:
But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
-- 539 --
To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
And others, when the bag-pipe sings i' the nose,
Cannot contain their urine for affection:
Masters of passion sway it to the mood
Of what it likes, or loaths6 note. Now, for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a woollen bag-pipe 11Q03057 note; but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame,
As to offend, himself being offended,
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate, and a certain loathing,
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
Bass.
This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shy.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
Bass.
Do all men kill the things they do not love?
Shy.
Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
Bass.
Every offence is not a hate at first.
Shy.
What! would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
Ant.
I pray you, think you question with the Jew.
You may as well go stand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf,
-- 540 --
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb 11Q03068 note
;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise,
When they are fretten9 note with the gusts of heaven;
You may as well do any thing most hard,
As seek to soften that (than which what's harder?)
His Jewish heart.—Therefore, I do beseech you,
Make no more offers, use no farther means,
But with all brief and plain conveniency,
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
Bass.
For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
Shy.
If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them: I would have my bond.
Duke.
How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
Shy.
What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them:—shall I say to you,
Let them be free; marry them to your heirs?
-- 541 --
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? You will answer,
The slaves are ours.—So do I answer you:
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it.
If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
Duke.
Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
Salar.
My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
Duke.
Bring us the letters: call the messenger.
Bass.
Good cheer, Antonio! What man, courage yet!
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
Ant.
I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.
Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk.
Duke.
Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
Ner.
From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.
[Presents a letter.
Bass.
Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
Shy.
To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Gra.
Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
-- 542 --
Shy.
No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
Gra.
O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog 11Q03071 note,
And for thy life let justice be accus'd!
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous.
Shy.
Till thou can'st rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud.
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
To cureless ruin2 note.—I stand here for law.
Duke.
This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court.—
Where is he?
Ner.
He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
Duke.
With all my heart:—some three or four of you,
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.—
Mean time, the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Clerk reads.]
“Your grace shall understand, that at
the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the
instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation
was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name is
Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy
between the Jew and Antonio, the merchant:
we turned o'er many books together: he is furnish'd
with my opinion; which, better'd with his own learning,
the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,
-- 543 --
comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your
grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack
of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend
estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so
old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance,
whose trial shall better publish his commendation.”
Duke.
You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.—
Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario?
Por.
I did, my lord.
Duke.
You are welcome: take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court?
Por.
I am informed throughly of the cause.—
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
Duke.
Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
Por.
Is your name Shylock?
Shy.
Shylock is my name.
Por.
Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.—
You stand within his danger3 note, do you not?
[To Antonio.
Ant.
Ay, so he says.
Por.
Do you confess the bond?
Ant.
I do.
Por.
Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shy.
On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
Por.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
-- 544 --
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway:
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself,
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,—
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice4 note
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
Shy.
My deeds upon my head. I crave the law;
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
Por.
Is he not able to discharge the money?
Bass.
Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum5 note: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart.
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth: and, I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
Por.
It must not be. There is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established:
'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
-- 545 --
And many an error, by the same example,
Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
Shy.
A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!—
O, wise young judge, how I do honour thee6 note!
Por.
I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shy.
Here 'tis, most reverend doctor; here it is.
Por.
Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
Shy.
An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
Por.
Why, this bond is forfeit,
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart.—Be merciful;
Take thrice thy money: bid me tear the bond.
Shy.
When it is paid according to the tenour.—
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law; your exposition
Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear,
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me. I stay here on my bond.
Ant.
Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
Por.
Why then, thus it is:—
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
Shy.
O, noble judge! O, excellent young man!
Por.
For the intent and purpose of the law,
Hath full relation to the penalty
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
Shy.
'Tis very true. O, wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
Por.
Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
Shy.
Ay, his breast;
-- 546 --
So says the bond:—doth it not, noble judge?—
Nearest his heart: those are the very words.
Por.
It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh? 11Q0308
Shy.
I have them ready.
Por.
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do7 note bleed to death.
Shy.
Is it so nominated in the bond8 note?
Por.
It is not so express'd; but what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shy.
I cannot find it: 'tis not in the bond.
Por.
You, merchant9 note, have you any thing to say?
Ant.
But little: I am arm'd, and well prepar'd.—
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well.
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you,
For herein fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use
To let the wretched man out-live his wealth,
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow,
An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honourable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge,
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend10 note,
And he repents not that he pays your debt,
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly1 note with all my heart.
Bass.
Antonio, I am married to a wife,
-- 547 --
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all,
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
Por.
Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by to hear you make the offer.
Gra.
I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
Ner.
'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
Shy.
These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barabbas
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian!
We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.
Por.
A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
Shy.
Most rightful judge!
Por.
And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:
The law allows it, and the court awards it.
Shy.
Most learned judge!—A sentence! come, prepare!
Por.
Tarry a little: there is something else.—
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh:
Take then thy bond2 note, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are by the laws of Venice confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.
Gra.
O upright judge!—Mark, Jew:—O learned judge!
Shy.
Is that the law?
Por.
Thyself shalt see the act;
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd,
-- 548 --
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
Gra.
O learned judge!—Mark, Jew:—a learned judge!
Shy.
I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.
Bass.
Here is the money.
Por.
Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice;—soft!—no haste:—
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra.
O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
Por.
Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more,
But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more,
Or less, than a just pound,—be it so much3 note
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 11Q0309
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
Gra.
A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
Por.
Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
Shy.
Give me my principal, and let me go.
Bass.
I have it ready for thee: here it is.
Por.
He hath refus'd it in the open court:
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra.
A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!—
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shy.
Shall I not have barely my principal?
Por.
Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shy.
Why then the devil give him good of it.
I'll stay no longer question4 note.
Por.
Tarry, Jew:
The law hath yet another hold on you.
-- 549 --
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be prov'd against an alien,
That by direct, or indirect attempts,
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive,
Shall seize one half his goods: the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;
For it appears by manifest proceeding,
That, indirectly, and directly too,
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant, and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
Gra.
Beg, that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself;
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
Thou hast not left the value of a cord,
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
Duke.
That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's:
The other half comes to the general state,
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
Por.
Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
Shy.
Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
You take my house, when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my life,
When you do take the means whereby I live.
Por.
What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
Gra.
A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake!
Ant.
So please my lord the duke, and all the court,
To quit the fine for one half of his goods,
I am content, so he will let me have
The other half in use, to render it,
Upon his death, unto the gentleman
-- 550 --
That lately stole his daughter:
Two things provided more,—that, for this favour,
He presently become a Christian;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd,
Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter.
Duke.
He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon, that I late pronounced here.
Por.
Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
Shy.
I am content.
Por.
Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
Shy.
I pray you, give me leave to go from hence.
I am not well. Send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.
Duke.
Get thee gone, but do it.
Gra.
In christening thou shalt have two godfathers:
Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more,
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font5 note.
[Exit Shylock
Duke.
Sir, I entreat you home with me6 note to dinner.
Por.
I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:
I must away this night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.
Duke.
I am sorry, that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train.
Bass.
Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
Ant.
And stand indebted, over and above,
In love and service to you evermore.
-- 551 --
Por.
He is well paid, that is well satisfied;
And I, delivering you, am satisfied,
And therein do account myself well paid:
My mind was never yet more mercenary.
I pray you, know me, when we meet again:
I wish you well, and so I take my leave.
Bass.
Dear sir, of force I must attempt you farther:
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
Not as a fee. Grant me two things, I pray you;
Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
Por.
You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;
And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you.—
Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more,
And you in love shall not deny me this.
Bass.
This ring, good sir?—alas, it is a trifle;
I will not shame myself to give you this.
Por.
I will have nothing else but only this;
And now, methinks, I have a mind to it.
Bass.
There's more depends on this, than on the value7 note
.
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
And find it out by proclamation;
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
Por.
I see, sir, you are liberal in offers:
You taught me first to beg, and now, methinks,
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.
Bass.
Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
And when she put it on she made me vow,
That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it.
Por.
That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
An if your wife be not a mad woman,
And know how well I have deserv'd this ring,
She would not hold out enemy for ever,
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you.
[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa.
-- 552 --
Ant.
My lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings, and my love withal,
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.
Bass.
Go, Gratiano; run and overtake him,
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou can'st,
Unto Antonio's house.—Away! make haste.
[Exit Gratiano.
Come, you and I will thither presently,
And in the morning early will we both
Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Same. A Street.
Enter Portia and Nerissa.
Por.
Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed,
And let him sign it. We'll away to-night,
And be a day before our husbands home.
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
Enter Gratiano.
Gra.
Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en.
My lord Bassanio, upon more advice,
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
Your company at dinner.
Por.
That cannot be.
His ring I do accept8 note most thankfully,
And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.
Gra.
That will I do.
Ner.
Sir, I would speak with you.—
I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,
[To Portia.
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
-- 553 --
Por.
Thou may'st, I warrant. We shall have old swearing9 note,
That they did give the rings away to men;
But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.
Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry.
Ner.
Come, good sir; will you show me to this house?
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Belmont. The Avenue to Portia's House.
Enter Lorenzo and Jessica.
Lor.
The moon shines bright.—In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.
Jes.
In such a night,
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay'd away.
Lor.
In such a night,
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her love
To come again to Carthage.
Jes.
In such a night,
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
That did renew old Æson.
Lor.
In such a night,
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice,
As far as Belmont.
-- 554 --
Jes.
In such a night,
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one.
Lor.
In such a night,
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
Jes.
I would out-night you, did no body come;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Enter Stephano.
Lor.
Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
Steph.
A friend.
Lor.
A friend? what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?
Steph.
Stephano is my name; and I bring word,
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont: she doth stray about
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
For happy wedlock hours.
Lor.
Who comes with her?
Steph.
None, but a holy hermit, and her maid.
I pray you, is my master yet return'd?
Lor.
He is not, nor we have not heard from him.—
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Enter Launcelot.
Laun.
Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!
Lor.
Who calls?
Laun.
Sola! did you see master Lorenzo, and mistress
Lorenzo1 note? sola, sola!
Lor.
Leave hallooing, man; here.
Laun.
Sola! where? where?
Lor.
Here.
-- 555 --
Laun.
Tell him, there's a post come from my master,
with his horn full of good news: my master will be
here ere morning.
[Exit.
Lor.
Sweet soul2 note 11Q0310, let's in, and there expect their coming.
And yet no matter;—why should we go in?
My friend Stephano3 note, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
And bring your music forth into the air.—
[Exit Stephano.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patterns of bright gold4 note;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in5 note, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians.
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.
Music.
-- 556 --
Jes.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood,
If they but hear, perchance, a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, 11Q0311
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils:
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.—Mark the music.
Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.
Por.
That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Ner.
When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
Por.
So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
Ner.
It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por.
Nothing is good, I see, without respect:
Methinks, it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Ner.
Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
Por.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
-- 557 --
When neither is attended; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise, and true perfection!—
Peace! how the moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awak'd! 11Q0312
[Music ceases.
Lor.
That is the voice,
Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia.
Por.
He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
By the bad voice.
Lor.
Dear lady, welcome home.
Por.
We have been praying for our husbands' welfare6 note,
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd?
Lor.
Madam, they are not yet;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming.
Por.
Go in, Nerissa:
Give order to my servants, that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence;—
Nor you, Lorenzo;—Jessica, nor you.
[A tucket sounded7 note.
Lor.
Your husband is at hand: I hear his trumpet.
We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.
Por.
This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick;
It looks a little paler: 'tis a day,
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their Followers.
Bass.
We should hold day with the Antipodes,
-- 558 --
If you would walk in absence of the sun.
Por.
Let me give light, but let me not be light;
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,
And never be Bassanio so for me:
But God sort all!—You are welcome home, my lord.
Bass.
I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend:
This is the man, this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound.
Por.
You should in all sense be much bound to him,
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
Ant.
No more than I am well acquitted of.
Por.
Sir, you are very welcome to our house:
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.
Gra.[To Nerissa].
By yonder moon, I swear, you do me wrong;
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk:
Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.
Por.
A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter?
Gra.
About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me; whose poesy was
For all the world, like cutlers' poetry 11Q03138 note
Upon a knife, “Love me, and leave me not.”
Ner.
What talk you of the poesy, or the value?
You swore to me, when I did give it you,
That you would wear it till your hour of death9 note,
And that it should lie with you in your grave:
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,
You should have been respective, and have kept it.
Gave it a judge's clerk! no, God's my judge1 note,
The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face, that had it.
-- 559 --
Gra.
He will, an if he live to be a man.
Ner.
Ay, if a woman live to be a man.
Gra.
Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
A kind of boy; a little scrubbed boy,
No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk;
A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee:
I could not for my heart deny it him.
Por.
You were to blame, I must be plain with you,
To part so slightly with your wife's first gift;
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
I gave my love a ring, and made him swear
Never to part with it; and here he stands:
I dare be sworn for him, he would not leave it,
Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:
An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.
Bass. [Aside.]
Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,
And swear I lost the ring defending it.
Gra.
My lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg'd it, and, indeed,
Deserv'd it too; and then the boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;
And neither man, nor master, would take aught
But the two rings.
Por.
What ring, gave you, my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me.
Bass.
If I could add a lie unto a fault,
I would deny it; but you see, my finger
Hath not the ring upon it: it is gone.
Por.
Even so void is your false heart of truth.
By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
Until I see the ring.
Ner.
Nor I in yours,
Till I again see mine.
-- 560 --
Bass.
Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring,
And would conceive for what I gave the ring,
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When naught would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
Por.
If you had known the virtue of the ring,
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
Or your own honour to contain the ring, 11Q0314
You would not then have parted with the ring.
What man is there so much unreasonable,
If you had pleas'd to have defended it
With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
To urge the thing held as a ceremony?
Nerissa teaches me what to believe:
I'll die for't, but some woman had the ring.
Bass.
No, by mine honour, madam, by my soul,
No woman had it; but a civil doctor,
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,
And begg'd the ring, the which I did deny him,
And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away2 note,
Even he that had held up the very life
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?
I was enforc'd to send it after him:
I was beset with shame and courtesy;
My honour would not let ingratitude
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady,
For3 note, by these blessed candles of the night,
Had you been there, I think, you would have begg'd
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
Por.
Let not that doctor e'er come near my house.
Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd,
-- 561 --
And that which you did swear to keep for me,
I will become as liberal as you:
I'll not deny him any thing I have;
No, not my body, nor my husband's bed.
Know him I shall, I am well sure of it:
Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus;
If you do not, if I be left alone,
Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,
I'll have that doctor4 note for my bedfellow.
Ner.
And I his clerk; therefore, be well advis'd
How you do leave me to mine own protection.
Gra.
Well, do you so: let not me take him, then;
For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.
Ant.
I am th' unhappy subject of these quarrels.
Por.
Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.
Bass.
Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;
And in the hearing of these many friends
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
Wherein I see myself,—
Por.
Mark you but that!
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself;
In each eye, one:—swear by your double self,
And there's an oath of credit.
Bass.
Nay, but hear me.
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear,
I never more will break an oath with thee.
Ant.
I once did lend my body for his wealth 11Q03155 note,
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
Will never more break faith advisedly.
Por.
Then, you shall be his surety. Give him this,
And bid him keep it better than the other.
Ant.
Here, lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.
-- 562 --
Bass.
By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor.
Por.
I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,
For by this ring the doctor lay with me.
Ner.
And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano,
For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,
In lieu of this last night did lie with me.
Gra.
Why, this is like the mending of highways
In summer, where the ways are fair enough. 11Q0316
What! are we cuckolds, ere we have deserv'd it?
Por.
Speak not so grossly.—You are all amaz'd:
Here is a letter, read it at your leisure;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
There you shall find, that Portia was the doctor;
Nerissa there, her clerk. Lorenzo, here,
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you,
And even but now return'd: I have not yet
Enter'd my house.—Antonio, you are welcome;
And I have better news in store for you,
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;
There you shall find, three of your argosies
Are richly come to harbour suddenly.
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.
Ant.
I am dumb.
Bass.
Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?
Gra.
Were you the clerk, that is to make me cuckold?
Ner.
Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it,
Unless he live until he be a man.
Bass.
Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:
When I am absent, then, lie with my wife.
Ant.
Sweet lady, you have given me life, and living,
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.
Por.
How now, Lorenzo?
My clerk hath some good comforts, too, for you.
Ner.
Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.—
-- 563 --
There do I give to you and Jessica,
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.
Lor.
Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.
Por.
It is almost morning,
And yet, I am sure, you are not satisfied
Of these events at full. Let us go in;
And charge us there upon inter'gatories,
And we will answer all things faithfully.
Gra.
Let it be so: the first inter'gatory,
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on, is,
Whether till the next night she had rather stay,
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day?
But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk6 note.
Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
[Exeunt.
