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N footh, 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 wantwit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.
Sal. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There where your argofies with portly fail,
Like figniors and rich burghers on the food,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea,
overpeer the petty traffickers
That court'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Sola. Believe me, sir, had I such ventures forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes aboard. I should be still
Plucking the grass
, to know where fits the wind,
Prying 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 fad.
Sal. 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 hourglass run,
But I should think of shallows, and of fats,
And see my wealthy arg’ly dock’d in fand,
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 dang’rous rocks?
Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my filks ;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing. Shall I have the thought
To think on this, and Ihall I lack the thought,
That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad ?
But, tell not me; I know, Anthonio
Is fad to think upon his merchandize.
Anth. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
Nor to one place; nor is
nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year : Therefore my merchandize makes me not sad.
Sola. Why, then you are in love.
Anth. Fie, fie, away!
Sola. Not in love neither ! then let's say you're sad,
Because you are not merry ; 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say, you're merry,
'Cause you're not fad. Now, by twoheaded Janus,
Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper ;
And others 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.
Sal. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo: fare
We leave you now with better company.
Sola. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Anth. Your worth is very dear in my regard :
I take it, your own business calls on you,
And embrace th’occasion to depart.
Sal. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bas. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?
Sal. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
Sola. My lord Bassanio, since you've found Anthonio,
We two will leave you ; but, at dinner-time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Baf. I will not fail you.
[Exeunt Solar. and Sala.
Gra. You look not well, signior Anthonio;
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.
Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,
A stage, where every man must play his part;
And mine's a sad one.
Gra. Let me play the fool
With mirth and laughter; so let wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
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, Anthonio,
(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 fir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !
O my Anthonio, I do know of those,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very fure,
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.
Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.
I must be one of these fame 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.
Anth. Fare well; I'll grow a talker for this gear.
Gra. Thanks, faith; for silence is only commendable
In a neats tongue dry'd, and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt Grat. and Lor. Anth. Is that any thing now?
Bas. 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.
Anth. Well; tell me now, what lady is this fame,
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis’d to tell me of ?
Baj. 'Tis not unknown to you, Anthonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By showing something 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 gag'd:
g’d: to you, Anthonio,
I owe the most in money, and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
T’unburden all my plots, and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
Anth. 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.
Bas. In my schooldays, when I had lost onc shaft,
I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight
The selfsame way, with more advised watch,
To find the other, forth; by vent'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 loft: but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self
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.
Anth. 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,