ACT I.

Salerio, a messenger from Venice.
Leonardo, servant to Bassanio.

Balthazar,

Stephano,

servants to Portia.

Portia, a rich heiress.

Nerissa, her waiting-maid.
Jessica, daughter to Shylock.

Magnificoes of Venice, officers of the court of Jus-
tice, jailer, servants, and other attendants.
Scene, partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the
seat of Portia, on the continent.

That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad?
But, tell not me; I know, Antonio

SCENE I-Venice. A street. Enter Antonio, Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

Salarino, and Salanio.
Antonio.

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 argosies! with portly sail,-
Like signiors and rich burghers of 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';
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 sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought|
To think on this; and shall I lack the thought,
(1) Ships of large burthen.
(2) Lowering.

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 merchandise makes me not sad.
Salan. Why then you are in love.

Ant.

Fie, fie! Salan. Not in love neither? Then let's say, you

are sad,

Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say, you are merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed
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 staid till I had made you

merry,

If worthier friend, 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 me must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.

1

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,
tiano;

A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

Gra

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 Oracle,
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; who, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers,
fools.

I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.-
Come, good Lorenzo:-Fare ye well, a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

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 advent'ring both,
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost: but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
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 wrong,
In making question of my uttermost,
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do,
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.

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
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

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

time:

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.

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,
own That I should questionless be fortunate.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years

more,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine tongue.

Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at
sea;

Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.
Gra. Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only com- Nor have I money, nor commodity
mendable

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth.
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Try what my credit can in Venice do;

[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.

Ant. Is that any thing now?

:

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this 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,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

[Exeuni,

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.
SCENE II.-Belmont. A room in Portia's
house. Enter Portia and Nerissa.
Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is
aweary of this great world.

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miscries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing: It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Por. Good sentences, and well 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

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; twenty what were good to be done, than be one of

And, if it stand, as you yourself still do,

(1) Obstinate silence.

(2) Ready.

the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain

(3) Formerly.

may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper a beast: an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope, I leaps over a cold decree such a hare is madness shall make shift to go without him. Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion the right casket, you should refuse to perform your to choose me a husband :-O me, the word choose! father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter thee, set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the concurb'd by the will of a dead father:-Is it not hard, trary casket: for, if the devil be within, and that Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? temptation without, I know he will choose it. I Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to men, at their death, have good inspirations; there a spunge. fore, the lottery, that he hath devised in these three

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any chests, of gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who of these lords; they have acquainted me with their chooses his meaning, chooses you,) will, no doubt, determinations: which is, indeed, to return to their never be chosen by any rightly, but one who you home, and to trouble you with no more suit; unless shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in you may be won by some other sort than your fayour affection towards any of these princely suitors ther's imposition, depending on the caskets. 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.

Por. If I live to be as old as Sybilla, 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 departure.

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

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

Ner. Then is there the county Palatine. Por. He does nothing but frown; as who should An if you will not have me, choose: he hears Ner. True, madam; he, of all the men that say, merry tales, and smiles not: I fear, he will prove ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being deserving a fair lady. so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had Por. I remember him well; and I remember rather be married to a death's head with a bone in him worthy of thy praise.-How now! what news? his mouth, than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

a

Enter a Servant.

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave: and there is a forerunner come Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass from a fifth, the prince of Morocco; who brings for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be word, the prince, his master, will be here to-night. Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so mocker: But, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frowning good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I than the count Palatine: he is every man in no should be glad of his approach: if he have the man: if a throstle sing, he falls straight a caper-condition of a saint, and the complexion of a devil, ing; he will fence with his own shadow: if I should I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. marry him, I should marry twenty husbands: If Come, Nerissa.-Sirrah, go before.-Whiles we he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. the door. [Exeunt. Ner. What say you then to Falconbridge, the SCENE III.-Venice. A public place. Enter young baron of England? Bassanio and Shylock."

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 lord, his neighbour?

Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him; for he borrowed a box of the ear of the English man, and swore he would pay him again, when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another.

Shy. Three thousand ducats,-well.
Bass. Av, sir, for three months.
Shy. For three months,-weil.

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 say Ner. How like you the young German, the duke ing he is a good man, is to have you understand of Saxony's nephew? me, that he is sufficient: yet his means are in supPor. Very vilely in the morning, when he is so- position: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, ber; and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is another to the Indies: I understand moreover upon drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for man; and when he is worst, he is little better than England, and other ventures he hath, squan(1) A heady, gay youngster.

(2) Count.

.(3) Temper, qualities.