Texts:Shakespeare/cw162322: Difference between revisions

<h2>THE MERCHANT OF VENICE</h2>

<h4>Contents</h4>

<p>

Venice. A street.<br/>

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

Venice. A public place.<br/>

<br/>

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

Venice. A street.<br/>

The same. A room in Shylock's house.<br/>

The same. A street.<br/>

The same. Before Shylock's house.<br/>

The same.<br/>

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

Venice. A street.<br/>

[[#sceneII_229|Scene IX.  

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

<br/>

Venice. A street.<br/>

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

Venice. A street.<br/>

Belmont. A room in Portia's house.<br/>

The same. A garden.<br/>

<br/>

Venice. A court of justice.<br/>

The same. A street.<br/>

<br/>

Belmont. The avenue to Portia's house.<br/>

<br/>

<br/>

</p>

<p>

THE DUKE OF VENICE<br/>

THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia<br/>

THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia<br/>

ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice<br/>

BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia<br/>

GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio<br/>

SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio<br/>

SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio<br/>

LORENZO, in love with Jessica<br/>

SHYLOCK, a rich Jew<br/>

TUBAL, a Jew, his friend<br/>

LAUNCELET GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock<br/>

OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelet<br/>

LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio<br/>

BALTHAZAR, servant to Portia<br/>

STEPHANO, servant to Portia<br/>

SALERIO, a messenger from Venice

</p>

<p>

PORTIA, a rich heiress<br/>

NERISSA, her waiting-woman<br/>

JESSICA, daughter to Shylock

</p>

<p>

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, a Gaoler, Servants

and other Attendants

</p>

<h4><b>SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia on the

Continent</b></h4>

<h3 id="sceneI_221"> <b>ACT I</b></h3>

<p class="scenedesc"> Enter <span class="charname">Antonio, Salarino</span> and

<span class="charname">Solanio</span>.</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

In sooth I know not why I am so sad,<br/>

It wearies me. you say it wearies you;<br/>

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,<br/>

What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,<br/>

I am to learn.<br/>

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,<br/>

That I have much ado to know myself.

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

Your mind is tossing on the ocean,<br/>

There where your argosies, with portly sail<br/>

Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,<br/>

Or as it were the pageants of the sea,<br/>

Do overpeer the petty traffickers<br/>

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,<br/>

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

</p>

<p>SOLANIO.<br/>

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,<br/>

The better part of my affections would<br/>

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still<br/>

Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,<br/>

Peering in maps for ports, and piers and roads;<br/>

And every object that might make me fear<br/>

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt<br/>

Would make me sad.

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

My wind cooling my broth<br/>

Would blow me to an ague when I thought<br/>

What harm a wind too great might do at sea.<br/>

I should not see the sandy hour-glass run<br/>

But I should think of shallows and of flats,<br/>

And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,<br/>

Vailing her high top lower than her ribs<br/>

To kiss her burial. Should I go to church<br/>

And see the holy edifice of stone<br/>

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,<br/>

Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,<br/>

Would scatter all her spices on the stream,<br/>

Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,<br/>

And, in a word, but even now worth this,<br/>

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought<br/>

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought<br/>

That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?<br/>

But tell not me, I know Antonio<br/>

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it,<br/>

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,<br/>

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate<br/>

Upon the fortune of this present year.<br/>

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

Why then you are in love.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Fie, fie!

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad<br/>

Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy<br/>

For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry<br/>

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,<br/>

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:<br/>

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,<br/>

And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper.<br/>

And other of such vinegar aspect<br/>

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile<br/>

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

</p>

<p class="scenedesc"> Enter <span class="charname">Bassanio, Lorenzo</span> and

<span class="charname">Gratiano</span>.</p>

<p>SOLANIO.<br/>

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,<br/>

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well.<br/>

We leave you now with better company.

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,<br/>

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Your worth is very dear in my regard.<br/>

I take it your own business calls on you,<br/>

And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

Good morrow, my good lords.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when?<br/>

You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?

</p>

<p>SALARINO.<br/>

We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

</p>

<p class="right"> [<i>Exeunt <span class="charname">Salarino</span> and

<span class="charname">Solanio</span>.</i>]</p>

<p>LORENZO.<br/>

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,<br/>

We two will leave you, but at dinner-time<br/>

I pray you have in mind where we must meet.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

I will not fail you.

</p>

<p>GRATIANO.<br/>

You look not well, Signior Antonio,<br/>

You have too much respect upon the world.<br/>

They lose it that do buy it with much care.<br/>

Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,<br/>

A stage, where every man must play a part,<br/>

And mine a sad one.

</p>

<p>GRATIANO.<br/>

Let me play the fool,<br/>

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,<br/>

And let my liver rather heat with wine<br/>

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.<br/>

Why should a man whose blood is warm within<br/>

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?<br/>

Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice<br/>

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,<br/>

(I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks):<br/>

There are a sort of men whose visages<br/>

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,<br/>

And do a wilful stillness entertain,<br/>

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion<br/>

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,<br/>

O my Antonio, I do know of these<br/>

That therefore only are reputed wise<br/>

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,<br/>

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears<br/>

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.<br/>

I'll tell thee more of this another time.<br/>

But fish not with this melancholy bait<br/>

For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.<br/>

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while.<br/>

I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

</p>

<p>LORENZO.<br/>

Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.<br/>

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,<br/>

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

</p>

<p>GRATIANO.<br/>

Well, keep me company but two years moe,<br/>

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Fare you well. I'll grow a talker for this gear.

</p>

<p>GRATIANO.<br/>

Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable<br/>

In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.

</p>

<p class="right"> [<i>Exeunt <span class="charname">Gratiano</span> and

<span class="charname">Lorenzo</span>.</i>]</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Is that anything now?

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

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.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Well, tell me now what lady is the same<br/>

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,<br/>

That you today promis'd to tell me of?

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,<br/>

How much I have disabled mine estate<br/>

By something showing a more swelling port<br/>

Than my faint means would grant continuance.<br/>

Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd<br/>

From such a noble rate, but my chief care<br/>

Is to come fairly off from the great debts<br/>

Wherein my time, something too prodigal,<br/>

Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,<br/>

I owe the most in money and in love,<br/>

And from your love I have a warranty<br/>

To unburden all my plots and purposes<br/>

How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;<br/>

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,<br/>

Within the eye of honour, be assur'd<br/>

My purse, my person, my extremest means<br/>

Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,<br/>

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight<br/>

The self-same way, with more advised watch<br/>

To find the other forth; and by adventuring both<br/>

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof<br/>

Because what follows is pure innocence.<br/>

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,<br/>

That which I owe is lost. But if you please<br/>

To shoot another arrow that self way<br/>

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,<br/>

As I will watch the aim, or to find both,<br/>

Or bring your latter hazard back again,<br/>

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

You know me well, and herein spend but time<br/>

To wind about my love with circumstance;<br/>

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong<br/>

In making question of my uttermost<br/>

Than if you had made waste of all I have.<br/>

Then do but say to me what I should do<br/>

That in your knowledge may by me be done,<br/>

And I am prest unto it. Therefore, speak.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

In Belmont is a lady richly left,<br/>

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,<br/>

Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes<br/>

I did receive fair speechless messages:<br/>

Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu'd<br/>

To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.<br/>

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,<br/>

For the four winds blow in from every coast<br/>

Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks<br/>

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece,<br/>

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,<br/>

And many Jasons come in quest of her.<br/>

O my Antonio, had I but the means<br/>

To hold a rival place with one of them,<br/>

I have a mind presages me such thrift<br/>

That I should questionless be fortunate.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;<br/>

Neither have I money nor commodity<br/>

To raise a present sum, therefore go forth<br/>

Try what my credit can in Venice do;<br/>

That shall be rack'd even to the uttermost,<br/>

To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia.<br/>

Go presently inquire, and so will I,<br/>

Where money is, and I no question make<br/>

To have it of my trust or for my sake.

</p>

<p class="scenedesc"> Enter <span class="charname">Portia</span> with her

waiting-woman <span class="charname">Nerissa</span>.</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

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 mean. Superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but

competency lives longer.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

Good sentences, and well pronounc'd.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

They would be better if well followed.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 to 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 fashion to choose me a

nor refuse who I dislike, so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by

the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one,

nor refuse none?

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good

inspirations. Therefore the lott'ry 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 chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly

love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely

suitors that are already come?

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

I pray thee over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them, and

according to my description level at my affection.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

Then is there the County Palatine.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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!

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

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

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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-cap'ring.

He will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty

husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to

madness, I shall never requite him.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 pennyworth 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 everywhere.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 seal'd under for another.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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. And the worst fall that ever fell,

I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

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.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to

a sponge.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

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.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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 departure.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

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?

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, as I think, so was he call'd.

</p>

<p>NERISSA.<br/>

True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look'd upon,

was the best deserving a fair lady.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

</p>

<p>How now! what news?

</p>

<p>SERVINGMAN.<br/>

The four strangers seek for you, 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 tonight.

</p>

<p>PORTIA.<br/>

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.

</p>

<p class="scenedesc"> Enter <span class="charname">Bassanio</span> with

<span class="charname">Shylock</span> the Jew.</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

Three thousand ducats, well.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Ay, sir, for three months.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

For three months, well.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

Antonio shall become bound, well.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Your answer to that.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

Antonio is a good man.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

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;

is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats. I think I may take his

bond.

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Be assured you may.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

I will be assured I may. And that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I

speak with Antonio?

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

If it please you to dine with us.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

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?

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

This is Signior Antonio.

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

[<i>Aside.</i>] How like a fawning publican he looks!<br/>

I hate him for he is a Christian,<br/>

But more for that in low simplicity<br/>

He lends out money gratis, and brings down<br/>

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.<br/>

If I can catch him once upon the hip,<br/>

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.<br/>

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,<br/>

Even there where merchants most do congregate,<br/>

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,<br/>

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe<br/>

If I forgive him!

</p>

<p>BASSANIO.<br/>

Shylock, do you hear?

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>

I am debating of my present store,<br/>

And by the near guess of my memory<br/>

I cannot instantly raise up the gross<br/>

Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?<br/>

Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,<br/>

Will furnish me. But soft! how many months<br/>

Do you desire? [<i>To Antonio.</i>] Rest you fair, good signior,<br/>

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

</p>

<p>ANTONIO.<br/>

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow<br/>

By taking nor by giving of excess,<br/>

Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend,<br/>

I'll break a custom. [<i>To Bassanio.</i>] Is he yet possess'd<br/>

How much ye would?

</p>

<p>SHYLOCK.<br/>