The Dramatic Works of William Shakspeare. From the Text of Johnson, Steevens, and Reed

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SCENE,—partly at Verice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

ACT I.

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 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,
That such a thing, bechanc'd, 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,
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!

[are sad, Sulan. Not in love neither? Then let's say, you 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 aspéct,

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 If worthier friends had not prevented me. [merry, 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 An-
We two will leave you: but, at dinner time, [tonio,
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 man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

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 stilness 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,

[fools.

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

[more, Gra. Well, keep me company but two years Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. 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. 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.

My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight [shaft,
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.

[time,

Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but
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
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' straud,
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.

[sea;

Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at
Nor 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. [cxeunt.

SCENE II. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA'S HOUSE.
Enter Portia and Nerissa.

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary 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 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 It is a good

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. And, if it stand, as you yourself still do,

Within the eye of honour, be assur'd,

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 over 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 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 curb'd 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 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?

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.

Ner. Then, is there the county Palatine. Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should say, 'An if 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 him. 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 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 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 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 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.

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 sponge.

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 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 Moutferrat? 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 news? Enter a servant.

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a fore-runner 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.
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 Shall I know your answer?

[me?

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.

Dass. Your answer to that. Shy. Antonio is a good man. [contrary? Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the 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 bath, squander'd abroad: but ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats, and waterrats, water-thieves, and land-thieves; 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 port; 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?

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,
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 Ant.
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend 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 would?

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
Ant. And for three months.

[so.

Shy. I had forgot,-three months, you told me 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.

This Jacob from our holy Abraham was
(As his wise mother wrought in his behalf)
The third possessor; ay, he was the third.

[say,

Ant. And what of him? did he take interest?
Shy. No, not take interest; not, as you would
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 the 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 blessing, if men steal it not.

Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd
A thing not in his power to bring to pass, [for;
But sway'd, and fashion'd, by the hand of heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good?
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 falsehood bath!

[sum.

Shy. Three thousand ducats,-'tis a good round Three months from twelve, then let me see the

rate.

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you
Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto 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 lend 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
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 metal of his friend?)

Shy. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep,' But lend it rather to thine enemy;

Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face
Exact the penalty.

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 me.

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

SCENE I.

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. [are,
Shy. O, father Abraham, what these Christians
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.

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew,

[exit.

This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind. 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.

ACT II.

BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA'S HOUSE.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, and his train; Portio, Nerissa, and other of her Attendants.

Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus' 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 look,
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!
If Hercules, and Lichas, play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

[exeunt.

So is Alcides beaten by his page;
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!
To make me bless't or cursed'st among men.

SCENE II. VENICE. A STREET. Enter Launcelot Gobbo.

[cornets.

[exeunt.

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,

take honest

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 ; heed, honest Gobbo; or', as aforesaid, Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels'. Well, the most courageous fiend bids 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.

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The Dramatic Works of William Shakspeare. From the Text of Johnson, Steevens ...