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Venice. A Street. | |
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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, | 5 |
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; | 10 |
There, where your argosies 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 curtsy to them, do them reverence, | 15 |
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; | 20 |
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, | 25 |
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 dockd in sand | 30 |
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 vessels side | 35 |
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 | 40 |
That such a thing bechancd would make me sad? | |
But tell not me: I know Antonio | |
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. | |
Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, | |
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, | 45 |
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate | |
Upon the fortune of this present year: | |
Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad. | |
Salar. Why, then you are in love. | |
Ant. Fie, fie! | 50 |
Salar. Not in love neither? Then lets 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 framd strange fellows in her time: | 55 |
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes | |
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, | |
And other of such vinegar aspect | |
That theyll not show their teeth in way of smile, | |
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. | 60 |
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Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO. | |
Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, | |
Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: | |
We leave you now with better company. | |
Salar. I would have stayd till I had made you merry, | 65 |
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. | 70 |
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say when? | |
You grow exceeding strange: must it be so? | |
Salar. Well make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO. | |
Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, | |
We too will leave you; but, at dinner-time, | 75 |
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: | 80 |
Believe me, you are marvellously changd. | |
Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; | |
A stage where every man must play a part, | |
And mine a sad one. | |
Gra. Let me play the fool: | 85 |
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? | 90 |
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, | 95 |
And do a wilful stillness entertain, | |
With purpose to be dressd 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! | 100 |
O, my Antonio, I do know of these, | |
That therefore only are reputed wise | |
For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, | |
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears | |
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. | 105 |
Ill tell thee more of this another time: | |
But fish not, with this melancholy bait, | |
For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion. | |
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while: | |
Ill end my exhortation after dinner. | 110 |
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 moe, | |
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. | 115 |
Ant. Farewell: Ill grow a talker for this gear. | |
Gra. Thanks, i faith; for silence is only commendable | |
In a neats tongue dried and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO. | |
Ant. Is that anything 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. | 120 |
Ant. Well, tell me now, what lady is the same | |
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, | |
That you to-day promisd to tell me of? | |
Bass. Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, | |
How much I have disabled mine estate, | 125 |
By something showing a more swelling port | |
Than my faint means would grant continuance: | |
Nor do I now make moan to be abridgd | |
From such a noble rate; but my chief care | |
Is, to come fairly off from the great debts | 130 |
Wherein my time, something too prodigal, | |
Hath left me gagd. 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 | 135 |
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 assurd, | |
My purse, my person, my extremest means, | 140 |
Lie all unlockd 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, | 145 |
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 | 150 |
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 | 155 |
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 | 160 |
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 | 165 |
I did receive fair speechless messages: | |
Her name is Portia; nothing undervalud | |
To Catos daughter, Brutus Portia: | |
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, | |
For the four winds blow in from every coast | 170 |
Renowned suitors; and her sunny locks | |
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; | |
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos Strond, | |
And many Jasons come in quest of her. | |
O my Antonio! had I but the means | 175 |
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 knowest that all my fortunes are at sea; | |
Neither have I money, nor commodity | 180 |
To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; | |
Try what my credit can in Venice do: | |
That shall be rackd, even to the uttermost, | |
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. | |
Go, presently inquire, and so will I, | 185 |
Where money is, and I no question make | |
To have it of my trust or for my sake. [Exeunt. | |
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