The Merchant of Venice

1In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:

2It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

3But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

4What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,

5I am to learn;

6And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

7That I have much ado to know myself.

8Your mind is tossing on the ocean;

9There, where your argosies with portly sail,

10Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,

11Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,

12Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

13That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

14As they fly by them with their woven wings.

15Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

16The better part of my affections would

17Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

18Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind,

19Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads;

20And every object that might make me fear

21Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

22Would make me sad.

23My wind cooling my broth

24Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

25What harm a wind too great at sea might do.

26I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,

27But I should think of shallows and of flats,

28And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,

29Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs

30To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

31And see the holy edifice of stone,

32And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

33Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,

34Would scatter all her spices on the stream,

35Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,

36And, in a word, but even now worth this,

37And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought

38To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

39That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?

40But tell not me; I know, Antonio

41Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

42Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,

43My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

44Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

45Upon the fortune of this present year:

46Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

47Why, then you are in love.

48Fie, fie!

49Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad,

50Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy

51For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,

52Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

53Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:

54Some that will evermore peep through their eyes

55And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,

56And other of such vinegar aspect

57That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,

58Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

59Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

60Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

61We leave you now with better company.

62I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,

63If worthier friends had not prevented me.

64Your worth is very dear in my regard.

65I take it, your own business calls on you

66And you embrace the occasion to depart.

67Good morrow, my good lords.

68Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?

69You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

70We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

71My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

72We two will leave you: but at dinner-time,

73I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

74I will not fail you.

75You look not well, Signior Antonio;

76You have too much respect upon the world:

77They lose it that do buy it with much care:

78Believe me, you are marvellously changed.

79I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

80A stage where every man must play a part,

81And mine a sad one.

82Let me play the fool:

83With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,

84And let my liver rather heat with wine

85Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

86Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

87Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

88Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice

89By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--

90I love thee, and it is my love that speaks--

91There are a sort of men whose visages

92Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

93And do a wilful stillness entertain,

94With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion

95Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,

96As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,

97And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!'

98O my Antonio, I do know of these

99That therefore only are reputed wise

100For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

101If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,

102Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

103I'll tell thee more of this another time:

104But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

105For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.

106Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:

107I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

108Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time:

109I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

110For Gratiano never lets me speak.

111Well, keep me company but two years moe,

112Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

113Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.

114Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable

115In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

116Is that any thing now?

117Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more

118than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two

119grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you

120shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you

121have them, they are not worth the search.

122Well, tell me now what lady is the same

123To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

124That you to-day promised to tell me of?

125'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

126How much I have disabled mine estate,

127By something showing a more swelling port

128Than my faint means would grant continuance:

129Nor do I now make moan to be abridged

130From such a noble rate; but my chief care

131Is to come fairly off from the great debts

132Wherein my time something too prodigal

133Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,

134I owe the most, in money and in love,

135And from your love I have a warranty

136To unburden all my plots and purposes

137How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

138I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;

139And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

140Within the eye of honour, be assured,

141My purse, my person, my extremest means,

142Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

143In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,

144I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

145The self-same way with more advised watch,

146To find the other forth, and by adventuring both

147I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,

148Because what follows is pure innocence.

149I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,

150That which I owe is lost; but if you please

151To shoot another arrow that self way

152Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,

153As I will watch the aim, or to find both

154Or bring your latter hazard back again

155And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

156You know me well, and herein spend but time

157To wind about my love with circumstance;

158And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

159In making question of my uttermost

160Than if you had made waste of all I have:

161Then do but say to me what I should do

162That in your knowledge may by me be done,

163And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.

164In Belmont is a lady richly left;

165And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,

166Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes

167I did receive fair speechless messages:

168Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued

169To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:

170Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,

171For the four winds blow in from every coast

172Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks

173Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

174Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,

175And many Jasons come in quest of her.

176O my Antonio, had I but the means

177To hold a rival place with one of them,

178I have a mind presages me such thrift,

179That I should questionless be fortunate!

180Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;

181Neither have I money nor commodity

182To raise a present sum: therefore go forth;

183Try what my credit can in Venice do:

184That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,

185To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

186Go, presently inquire, and so will I,

187Where money is, and I no question make

188To have it of my trust or for my sake.

1By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of

2this great world.

3You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in

4the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and

5yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit

6with too much as they that starve with nothing. It

7is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the

8mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but

9competency lives longer.

10Good sentences and well pronounced.

11They would be better, if well followed.

12If to do were as easy as to know what were good to

13do, chapels had been churches and poor men's

14cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that

15follows his own instructions: I can easier teach

16twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the

17twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may

18devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps

19o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the

20youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the

21cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to

22choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may

23neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I

24dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed

25by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,

26Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

27Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their

28death have good inspirations: therefore the lottery,

29that he hath devised in these three chests of gold,

30silver and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning

31chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any

32rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what

33warmth is there in your affection towards any of

34these princely suitors that are already come?

35I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest

36them, I will describe them; and, according to my

37description, level at my affection.

38First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

39Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but

40talk of his horse; and he makes it a great

41appropriation to his own good parts, that he can

42shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his

43mother played false with a smith.

44Then there is the County Palatine.

45He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If you

46will not have me, choose:' he hears merry tales and

47smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping

48philosopher when he grows old, being so full of

49unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be

50married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth

51than to either of these. God defend me from these

52two!

53How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

54God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.

55In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but,

56he! why, he hath a horse better than the

57Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than

58the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a

59throstle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will

60fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I

61should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me

62I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I

63shall never requite him.

64What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron

65of England?

66You know I say nothing to him, for he understands

67not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French,

68nor Italian, and you will come into the court and

69swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English.

70He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can

71converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited!

72I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round

73hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his

74behavior every where.

75What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

76That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he

77borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and

78swore he would pay him again when he was able: I

79think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed

80under for another.

81How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

82Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and

83most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when

84he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and

85when he is worst, he is little better than a beast:

86and the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall

87make shift to go without him.

88If he should offer to choose, and choose the right

89casket, you should refuse to perform your father's

90will, if you should refuse to accept him.

91Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a

92deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket,

93for if the devil be within and that temptation

94without, I know he will choose it. I will do any

95thing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

96You need not fear, lady, the having any of these

97lords: they have acquainted me with their

98determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their

99home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless

100you may be won by some other sort than your father's

101imposition depending on the caskets.

102If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as

103chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner

104of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers

105are so reasonable, for there is not one among them

106but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant

107them a fair departure.

108Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a

109Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither

110in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

111Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

112True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish

113eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

114I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of

115thy praise.

116How now! what news?

117The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take

118their leave: and there is a forerunner come from a

119fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the

120prince his master will be here to-night.

121If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a

122heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should

123be glad of his approach: if he have the condition

124of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had

125rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come,

126Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.

127Whiles we shut the gates

128upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

1Three thousand ducats; well.

2Ay, sir, for three months.

3For three months; well.

4For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

5Antonio shall become bound; well.

6May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I

7know your answer?

8Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound.

9Your answer to that.

10Antonio is a good man.

11Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

12Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a

13good man is to have you understand me that he is

14sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he

15hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the

16Indies; I understand moreover, upon the Rialto, he

17hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and

18other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships

19are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats

20and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I

21mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters,

22winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding,

23sufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think I may

24take his bond.

25Be assured you may.

26I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured,

27I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

28If it please you to dine with us.

29Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which

30your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I

31will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you,

32walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat

33with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What

34news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?

35This is Signior Antonio.

36[Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks!

37I hate him for he is a Christian,

38But more for that in low simplicity

39He lends out money gratis and brings down

40The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

41If I can catch him once upon the hip,

42I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

43He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,

44Even there where merchants most do congregate,

45On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift,

46Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,

47If I forgive him!

48Shylock, do you hear?

49I am debating of my present store,

50And, by the near guess of my memory,

51I cannot instantly raise up the gross

52Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

53Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

54Will furnish me. But soft! how many months

55Do you desire?

56Rest you fair, good signior;

57Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

58Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow

59By taking nor by giving of excess,

60Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,

61I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd

62How much ye would?

63Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

64And for three months.

65I had forgot; three months; you told me so.

66Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;

67Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow

68Upon advantage.

69I do never use it.

70When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep--

71This Jacob from our holy Abram was,

72As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,

73The third possessor; ay, he was the third--

74And what of him? did he take interest?

75No, not take interest, not, as you would say,

76Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

77When Laban and himself were compromised

78That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied

79Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,

80In the end of autumn turned to the rams,

81And, when the work of generation was

82Between these woolly breeders in the act,

83The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,

84And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

85He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

86Who then conceiving did in eaning time

87Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.

88This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:

89And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

90This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for;

91A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

92But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.

93Was this inserted to make interest good?

94Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

95I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:

96But note me, signior.

97Mark you this, Bassanio,

98The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

99An evil soul producing holy witness

100Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

101A goodly apple rotten at the heart:

102O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

103Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.

104Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--

105Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

106Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

107In the Rialto you have rated me

108About my moneys and my usances:

109Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

110For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.

111You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,

112And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,

113And all for use of that which is mine own.

114Well then, it now appears you need my help:

115Go to, then; you come to me, and you say

116'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so;

117You, that did void your rheum upon my beard

118And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

119Over your threshold: moneys is your suit

120What should I say to you? Should I not say

121'Hath a dog money? is it possible

122A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or

123Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key,

124With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this;

125'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

126You spurn'd me such a day; another time

127You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies

128I'll lend you thus much moneys'?

129I am as like to call thee so again,

130To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.

131If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not

132As to thy friends; for when did friendship take

133A breed for barren metal of his friend?

134But lend it rather to thine enemy,

135Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face

136Exact the penalty.

137Why, look you, how you storm!

138I would be friends with you and have your love,

139Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,

140Supply your present wants and take no doit

141Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:

142This is kind I offer.

143This were kindness.

144This kindness will I show.

145Go with me to a notary, seal me there

146Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

147If you repay me not on such a day,

148In such a place, such sum or sums as are

149Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit

150Be nominated for an equal pound

151Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

152In what part of your body pleaseth me.

153Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond

154And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

155You shall not seal to such a bond for me:

156I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

157Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:

158Within these two months, that's a month before

159This bond expires, I do expect return

160Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

161O father Abram, what these Christians are,

162Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect

163The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this;

164If he should break his day, what should I gain

165By the exaction of the forfeiture?

166A pound of man's flesh taken from a man

167Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

168As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,

169To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:

170If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;

171And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

172Yes Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

173Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;

174Give him direction for this merry bond,

175And I will go and purse the ducats straight,

176See to my house, left in the fearful guard

177Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

178I will be with you.

179Hie thee, gentle Jew.

180The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

181I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

182Come on: in this there can be no dismay;

183My ships come home a month before the day.

1Mislike me not for my complexion,

2The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,

3To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.

4Bring me the fairest creature northward born,

5Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,

6And let us make incision for your love,

7To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

8I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine

9Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear

10The best-regarded virgins of our clime

11Have loved it too: I would not change this hue,

12Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

13In terms of choice I am not solely led

14By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;

15Besides, the lottery of my destiny

16Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:

17But if my father had not scanted me

18And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself

19His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

20Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair

21As any comer I have look'd on yet

22For my affection.

23Even for that I thank you:

24Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

25To try my fortune. By this scimitar

26That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince

27That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,

28I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,

29Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,

30Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

31Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,

32To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!

33If Hercules and Lichas play at dice

34Which is the better man, the greater throw

35May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

36So is Alcides beaten by his page;

37And so may I, blind fortune leading me,

38Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

39And die with grieving.

40You must take your chance,

41And either not attempt to choose at all

42Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong

43Never to speak to lady afterward

44In way of marriage: therefore be advised.

45Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

46First, forward to the temple: after dinner

47Your hazard shall be made.

48Good fortune then!

49To make me blest or cursed'st among men.

1Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from

2this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and

3tempts me saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good

4Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot

5Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My

6conscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot;

7take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest

8Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy

9heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me

10pack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the

11fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,'

12says the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience,

13hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely

14to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest

15man's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for,

16indeed, my father did something smack, something

17grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience

18says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the

19fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.

20'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,'

21say I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my

22conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master,

23who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to

24run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the

25fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil

26himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil

27incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is

28but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel

29me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more

30friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are

31at your command; I will run.

32Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way

33to master Jew's?

34[Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!

35who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind,

36knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

37Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way

38to master Jew's?

39Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but,

40at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at

41the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn

42down indirectly to the Jew's house.

43By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can

44you tell me whether one Launcelot,

45that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

46Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

47Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you

48of young Master Launcelot?

49No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,

50though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man

51and, God be thanked, well to live.

52Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of

53young Master Launcelot.

54Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.

55But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you,

56talk you of young Master Launcelot?

57Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

58Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master

59Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,

60according to Fates and Destinies and such odd

61sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of

62learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say

63in plain terms, gone to heaven.

64Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my

65age, my very prop.

66Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or

67a prop? Do you know me, father?

68Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:

69but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his

70soul, alive or dead?

71Do you not know me, father?

72Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.

73Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of

74the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his

75own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of

76your son: give me your blessing: truth will come

77to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son

78may, but at the length truth will out.

79Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not

80Launcelot, my boy.

81Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but

82give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy

83that was, your son that is, your child that shall

84be.

85I cannot think you are my son.

86I know not what I shall think of that: but I am

87Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your

88wife is my mother.

89Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou

90be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.

91Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou

92got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than

93Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.

94It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows

95backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail

96than I have of my face when I last saw him.

97Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy

98master agree? I have brought him a present. How

99'gree you now?

100Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set

101up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I

102have run some ground. My master's a very Jew: give

103him a present! give him a halter: I am famished in

104his service; you may tell every finger I have with

105my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me

106your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,

107gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I

108will run as far as God has any ground. O rare

109fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I

110am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

111You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper

112be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See

113these letters delivered; put the liveries to making,

114and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

115To him, father.

116God bless your worship!

117Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?

118Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--

119Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that

120would, sir, as my father shall specify--

121He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--

122Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew,

123and have a desire, as my father shall specify--

124His master and he, saving your worship's reverence,

125are scarce cater-cousins--

126To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having

127done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I

128hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you--

129I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon

130your worship, and my suit is--

131In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as

132your worship shall know by this honest old man; and,

133though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

134One speak for both. What would you?

135Serve you, sir.

136That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

137I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:

138Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,

139And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment

140To leave a rich Jew's service, to become

141The follower of so poor a gentleman.

142The old proverb is very well parted between my

143master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of

144God, sir, and he hath enough.

145Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.

146Take leave of thy old master and inquire

147My lodging out. Give him a livery

148More guarded than his fellows': see it done.

149Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have

150ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in

151Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear

152upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to,

153here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle

154of wives: alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven

155widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one

156man: and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be

157in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed;

158here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a

159woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father,

160come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.

161I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:

162These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,

163Return in haste, for I do feast to-night

164My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.

165My best endeavours shall be done herein.

166Where is your master?

167Yonder, sir, he walks.

168Signior Bassanio!

169Gratiano!

170I have a suit to you.

171You have obtain'd it.

172You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.

173Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;

174Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;

175Parts that become thee happily enough

176And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;

177But where thou art not known, why, there they show

178Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain

179To allay with some cold drops of modesty

180Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior

181I be misconstrued in the place I go to,

182And lose my hopes.

183Signior Bassanio, hear me:

184If I do not put on a sober habit,

185Talk with respect and swear but now and then,

186Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

187Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

188Thus with my hat, and sigh and say 'amen,'

189Use all the observance of civility,

190Like one well studied in a sad ostent

191To please his grandam, never trust me more.

192Well, we shall see your bearing.

193Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me

194By what we do to-night.

195No, that were pity:

196I would entreat you rather to put on

197Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

198That purpose merriment. But fare you well:

199I have some business.

200And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:

201But we will visit you at supper-time.

1I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:

2Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,

3Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

4But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee:

5And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see

6Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:

7Give him this letter; do it secretly;

8And so farewell: I would not have my father

9See me in talk with thee.

10Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful

11pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play

12the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But,

13adieu: these foolish drops do something drown my

14manly spirit: adieu.

15Farewell, good Launcelot.

16Alack, what heinous sin is it in me

17To be ashamed to be my father's child!

18But though I am a daughter to his blood,

19I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,

20If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,

21Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

1Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,

2Disguise us at my lodging and return,

3All in an hour.

4We have not made good preparation.

5We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.

6'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,

7And better in my mind not undertook.

8'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours

9To furnish us.

10Friend Launcelot, what's the news?

11An it shall please you to break up

12this, it shall seem to signify.

13I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;

14And whiter than the paper it writ on

15Is the fair hand that writ.

16Love-news, in faith.

17By your leave, sir.

18Whither goest thou?

19Marry, sir, to bid my old master the

20Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.

21Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica

22I will not fail her; speak it privately.

23Go, gentlemen,

24Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?

25I am provided of a torch-bearer.

26Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

27And so will I.

28Meet me and Gratiano

29At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.

30'Tis good we do so.

31Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

32I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed

33How I shall take her from her father's house,

34What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with,

35What page's suit she hath in readiness.

36If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,

37It will be for his gentle daughter's sake:

38And never dare misfortune cross her foot,

39Unless she do it under this excuse,

40That she is issue to a faithless Jew.

41Come, go with me; peruse this as thou goest:

42Fair Jessica shall be my torch-beare r.

1Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,

2The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--

3What, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise,

4As thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!--

5And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;--

6Why, Jessica, I say!

7Why, Jessica!

8Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

9Your worship was wont to tell me that

10I could do nothing without bidding.

11Call you? what is your will?

12I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:

13There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?

14I am not bid for love; they flatter me:

15But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon

16The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,

17Look to my house. I am right loath to go:

18There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,

19For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

20I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect

21your reproach.

22So do I his.

23An they have conspired together, I will not say you

24shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not

25for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on

26Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning,

27falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four

28year, in the afternoon.

29What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:

30Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum

31And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,

32Clamber not you up to the casements then,

33Nor thrust your head into the public street

34To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,

35But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements:

36Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter

37My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear,

38I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:

39But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;

40Say I will come.

41I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at

42window, for all this, There will come a Christian

43boy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.

44What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?

45His words were 'Farewell mistress;' nothing else.

46The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;

47Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day

48More than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me;

49Therefore I part with him, and part with him

50To one that would have him help to waste

51His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in;

52Perhaps I will return immediately:

53Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:

54Fast bind, fast find;

55A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

56Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,

57I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

1This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo

2Desired us to make stand.

3His hour is almost past.

4And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,

5For lovers ever run before the clock.

6O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly

7To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont

8To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

9That ever holds: who riseth from a feast

10With that keen appetite that he sits down?

11Where is the horse that doth untread again

12His tedious measures with the unbated fire

13That he did pace them first? All things that are,

14Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.

15How like a younker or a prodigal

16The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

17Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!

18How like the prodigal doth she return,

19With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,

20Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!

21Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.

22Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;

23Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:

24When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,

25I'll watch as long for you then. Approach;

26Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?

27Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

28Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.

29Lorenzo, and thy love.

30Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,

31For who love I so much? And now who knows

32But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

33Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

34Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

35I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,

36For I am much ashamed of my exchange:

37But love is blind and lovers cannot see

38The pretty follies that themselves commit;

39For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

40To see me thus transformed to a boy.

41Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.

42What, must I hold a candle to my shames?

43They in themselves, good-sooth, are too too light.

44Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love;

45And I should be obscured.

46So are you, sweet,

47Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

48But come at once;

49For the close night doth play the runaway,

50And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.

51I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

52With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

53Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.

54Beshrew me but I love her heartily;

55For she is wise, if I can judge of her,

56And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

57And true she is, as she hath proved herself,

58And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,

59Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

60What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!

61Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

62Who's there?

63Signior Antonio!

64Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?

65'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you.

66No masque to-night: the wind is come about;

67Bassanio presently will go aboard:

68I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

69I am glad on't: I desire no more delight

70Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

1Go draw aside the curtains and discover

2The several caskets to this noble prince.

3Now make your choice.

4The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,

5'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;'

6The second, silver, which this promise carries,

7'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;'

8This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,

9'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'

10How shall I know if I do choose the right?

11The one of them contains my picture, prince:

12If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

13Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;

14I will survey the inscriptions back again.

15What says this leaden casket?

16'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'

17Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead?

18This casket threatens. Men that hazard all

19Do it in hope of fair advantages:

20A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;

21I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.

22What says the silver with her virgin hue?

23'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

24As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,

25And weigh thy value with an even hand:

26If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,

27Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough

28May not extend so far as to the lady:

29And yet to be afeard of my deserving

30Were but a weak disabling of myself.

31As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady:

32I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,

33In graces and in qualities of breeding;

34But more than these, in love I do deserve.

35What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?

36Let's see once more this saying graved in gold

37'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'

38Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her;

39From the four corners of the earth they come,

40To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:

41The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds

42Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now

43For princes to come view fair Portia:

44The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head

45Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar

46To stop the foreign spirits, but they come,

47As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.

48One of these three contains her heavenly picture.

49Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation

50To think so base a thought: it were too gross

51To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

52Or shall I think in silver she's immured,

53Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?

54O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem

55Was set in worse than gold. They have in England

56A coin that bears the figure of an angel

57Stamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon;

58But here an angel in a golden bed

59Lies all within. Deliver me the key:

60Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!

61There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,

62Then I am yours.

63O hell! what have we here?

64A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

65There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.

66All that glitters is not gold;

67Often have you heard that told:

68Many a man his life hath sold

69But my outside to behold:

70Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

71Had you been as wise as bold,

72Young in limbs, in judgment old,

73Your answer had not been inscroll'd:

74Fare you well; your suit is cold.

75Cold, indeed; and labour lost:

76Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!

77Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart

78To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

79A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.

80Let all of his complexion choose me so.

1Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:

2With him is Gratiano gone along;

3And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

4The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke,

5Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

6He came too late, the ship was under sail:

7But there the duke was given to understand

8That in a gondola were seen together

9Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:

10Besides, Antonio certified the duke

11They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

12I never heard a passion so confused,

13So strange, outrageous, and so variable,

14As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:

15'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

16Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!

17Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!

18A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

19Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter!

20And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,

21Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl;

22She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.'

23Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,

24Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

25Let good Antonio look he keep his day,

26Or he shall pay for this.

27Marry, well remember'd.

28I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,

29Who told me, in the narrow seas that part

30The French and English, there miscarried

31A vessel of our country richly fraught:

32I thought upon Antonio when he told me;

33And wish'd in silence that it were not his.

34You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;

35Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

36A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

37I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:

38Bassanio told him he would make some speed

39Of his return: he answer'd, 'Do not so;

40Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio

41But stay the very riping of the time;

42And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,

43Let it not enter in your mind of love:

44Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts

45To courtship and such fair ostents of love

46As shall conveniently become you there:'

47And even there, his eye being big with tears,

48Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

49And with affection wondrous sensible

50He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.

51I think he only loves the world for him.

52I pray thee, let us go and find him out

53And quicken his embraced heaviness

54With some delight or other.

55Do we so.

1Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:

2The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,

3And comes to his election presently.

4Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:

5If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,

6Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:

7But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

8You must be gone from hence immediately.

9I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:

10First, never to unfold to any one

11Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail

12Of the right casket, never in my life

13To woo a maid in way of marriage: Lastly,

14If I do fail in fortune of my choice,

15Immediately to leave you and be gone.

16To these injunctions every one doth swear

17That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

18And so have I address'd me. Fortune now

19To my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead.

20'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'

21You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.

22What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:

23'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'

24What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant

25By the fool multitude, that choose by show,

26Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;

27Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,

28Builds in the weather on the outward wall,

29Even in the force and road of casualty.

30I will not choose what many men desire,

31Because I will not jump with common spirits

32And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.

33Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;

34Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

35'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:'

36And well said too; for who shall go about

37To cozen fortune and be honourable

38Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume

39To wear an undeserved dignity.

40O, that estates, degrees and offices

41Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour

42Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!

43How many then should cover that stand bare!

44How many be commanded that command!

45How much low peasantry would then be glean'd

46From the true seed of honour! and how much honour

47Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times

48To be new-varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:

49'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

50I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,

51And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

52Too long a pause for that which you find there.

53What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,

54Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.

55How much unlike art thou to Portia!

56How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!

57'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'

58Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?

59Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?

60To offend, and judge, are distinct offices

61And of opposed natures.

62What is here?

63The fire seven times tried this:

64Seven times tried that judgment is,

65That did never choose amiss.

66Some there be that shadows kiss;

67Such have but a shadow's bliss:

68There be fools alive, I wis,

69Silver'd o'er; and so was this.

70Take what wife you will to bed,

71I will ever be your head:

72So be gone: you are sped.

73Still more fool I shall appear

74By the time I linger here

75With one fool's head I came to woo,

76But I go away with two.

77Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,

78Patiently to bear my wroth.

79Thus hath the candle singed the moth.

80O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,

81They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

82The ancient saying is no heresy,

83Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

84Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

85Where is my lady?

86Here: what would my lord?

87Madam, there is alighted at your gate

88A young Venetian, one that comes before

89To signify the approaching of his lord;

90From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,

91To wit, besides commends and courteous breath,

92Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen

93So likely an ambassador of love:

94A day in April never came so sweet,

95To show how costly summer was at hand,

96As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

97No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard

98Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,

99Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.

100Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see

101Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.

102Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

1Now, what news on the Rialto?

2Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath

3a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas;

4the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very

5dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many

6a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip

7Report be an honest woman of her word.

8I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever

9knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she

10wept for the death of a third husband. But it is

11true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the

12plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the

13honest Antonio,--O that I had a title good enough

14to keep his name company!--

15Come, the full stop.

16Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath

17lost a ship.

18I would it might prove the end of his losses.

19Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my

20prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

21How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?

22You know, none so well, none so well as you, of my

23daughter's flight.

24That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor

25that made the wings she flew withal.

26And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was

27fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all

28to leave the dam.

29She is damned for it.

30That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.

31My own flesh and blood to rebel!

32Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these years?

33I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.

34There is more difference between thy flesh and hers

35than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods

36than there is between red wine and rhenish. But

37tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any

38loss at sea or no?

39There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a

40prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the

41Rialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon

42the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to

43call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was

44wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him

45look to his bond.

46Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take

47his flesh: what's that good for?

48To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,

49it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and

50hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,

51mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my

52bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine

53enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath

54not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,

55dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with

56the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject

57to the same diseases, healed by the same means,

58warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as

59a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

60if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison

61us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not

62revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will

63resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,

64what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian

65wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by

66Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you

67teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I

68will better the instruction.

69Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and

70desires to speak with you both.

71We have been up and down to seek him.

72Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be

73matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

74How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou

75found my daughter?

76I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

77Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone,

78cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse

79never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it

80till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other

81precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter

82were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!

83would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in

84her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know

85not what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon

86loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to

87find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge:

88nor no in luck stirring but what lights on my

89shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears

90but of my shedding.

91Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I

92heard in Genoa,--

93What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

94Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.

95I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true?

96I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.

97I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good news!

98ha, ha! where? in Genoa?

99Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one

100night fourscore ducats.

101Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my

102gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting!

103fourscore ducats!

104There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my

105company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.

106I am very glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture

107him: I am glad of it.

108One of them showed me a ring that he had of your

109daughter for a monkey.

110Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my

111turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor:

112I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

113But Antonio is certainly undone.

114Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee

115me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I

116will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were

117he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I

118will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue;

119go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

1I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two

2Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,

3I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.

4There's something tells me, but it is not love,

5I would not lose you; and you know yourself,

6Hate counsels not in such a quality.

7But lest you should not understand me well,--

8And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,--

9I would detain you here some month or two

10Before you venture for me. I could teach you

11How to choose right, but I am then forsworn;

12So will I never be: so may you miss me;

13But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,

14That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

15They have o'erlook'd me and divided me;

16One half of me is yours, the other half yours,

17Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

18And so all yours. O, these naughty times

19Put bars between the owners and their rights!

20And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,

21Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

22I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time,

23To eke it and to draw it out in length,

24To stay you from election.

25Let me choose

26For as I am, I live upon the rack.

27Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess

28What treason there is mingled with your love.

29None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

30Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love:

31There may as well be amity and life

32'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

33Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

34Where men enforced do speak anything.

35Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.

36Well then, confess and live.

37'Confess' and 'love'

38Had been the very sum of my confession:

39O happy torment, when my torturer

40Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

41But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

42Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:

43If you do love me, you will find me out.

44Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.

45Let music sound while he doth make his choice;

46Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,

47Fading in music: that the comparison

48May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream

49And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

50And what is music then? Then music is

51Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

52To a new-crowned monarch: such it is

53As are those dulcet sounds in break of day

54That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,

55And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,

56With no less presence, but with much more love,

57Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

58The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy

59To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice

60The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

61With bleared visages, come forth to view

62The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules!

63Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay

64I view the fight than thou that makest the fray.

65SONG.

66Tell me where is fancy bred,

67Or in the heart, or in the head?

68How begot, how nourished?

69Reply, reply.

70It is engender'd in the eyes,

71With gazing fed; and fancy dies

72In the cradle where it lies.

73Let us all ring fancy's knell

74I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.

75Ding, dong, bell.

76So may the outward shows be least themselves:

77The world is still deceived with ornament.

78In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,

79But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,

80Obscures the show of evil? In religion,

81What damned error, but some sober brow

82Will bless it and approve it with a text,

83Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

84There is no vice so simple but assumes

85Some mark of virtue on his outward parts:

86How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

87As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins

88The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;

89Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;

90And these assume but valour's excrement

91To render them redoubted! Look on beauty,

92And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;

93Which therein works a miracle in nature,

94Making them lightest that wear most of it:

95So are those crisped snaky golden locks

96Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,

97Upon supposed fairness, often known

98To be the dowry of a second head,

99The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.

100Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

101To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

102Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,

103The seeming truth which cunning times put on

104To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

105Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

106Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

107'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,

108Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,

109Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;

110And here choose I; joy be the consequence!

111[Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,

112As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,

113And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,

114Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,

115In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.

116I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,

117For fear I surfeit.

118What find I here?

119Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god

120Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?

121Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,

122Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,

123Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar

124Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs

125The painter plays the spider and hath woven

126A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,

127Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,--

128How could he see to do them? having made one,

129Methinks it should have power to steal both his

130And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far

131The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow

132In underprizing it, so far this shadow

133Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,

134The continent and summary of my fortune.

135You that choose not by the view,

136Chance as fair and choose as true!

137Since this fortune falls to you,

138Be content and seek no new,

139If you be well pleased with this

140And hold your fortune for your bliss,

141Turn you where your lady is

142And claim her with a loving kiss.

143A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;

144I come by note, to give and to receive.

145Like one of two contending in a prize,

146That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,

147Hearing applause and universal shout,

148Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt

149Whether these pearls of praise be his or no;

150So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so;

151As doubtful whether what I see be true,

152Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.

153You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

154Such as I am: though for myself alone

155I would not be ambitious in my wish,

156To wish myself much better; yet, for you

157I would be trebled twenty times myself;

158A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;

159That only to stand high in your account,

160I might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends,

161Exceed account; but the full sum of me

162Is sum of something, which, to term in gross,

163Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised;

164Happy in this, she is not yet so old

165But she may learn; happier than this,

166She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

167Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit

168Commits itself to yours to be directed,

169As from her lord, her governor, her king.

170Myself and what is mine to you and yours

171Is now converted: but now I was the lord

172Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

173Queen o'er myself: and even now, but now,

174This house, these servants and this same myself

175Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring;

176Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

177Let it presage the ruin of your love

178And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

179Madam, you have bereft me of all words,

180Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;

181And there is such confusion in my powers,

182As after some oration fairly spoke

183By a beloved prince, there doth appear

184Among the buzzing pleased multitude;

185Where every something, being blent together,

186Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,

187Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring

188Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:

189O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!

190My lord and lady, it is now our time,

191That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,

192To cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady!

193My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,

194I wish you all the joy that you can wish;

195For I am sure you can wish none from me:

196And when your honours mean to solemnize

197The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,

198Even at that time I may be married too.

199With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.

200I thank your lordship, you have got me one.

201My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:

202You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;

203You loved, I loved for intermission.

204No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.

205Your fortune stood upon the casket there,

206And so did mine too, as the matter falls;

207For wooing here until I sweat again,

208And sweating until my very roof was dry

209With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,

210I got a promise of this fair one here

211To have her love, provided that your fortune

212Achieved her mistress.

213Is this true, Nerissa?

214Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal.

215And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

216Yes, faith, my lord.

217Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.

218We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.

219What, and stake down?

220No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.

221But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What,

222and my old Venetian friend Salerio?

223Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither;

224If that the youth of my new interest here

225Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,

226I bid my very friends and countrymen,

227Sweet Portia, welcome.

228So do I, my lord:

229They are entirely welcome.

230I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,

231My purpose was not to have seen you here;

232But meeting with Salerio by the way,

233He did entreat me, past all saying nay,

234To come with him along.

235I did, my lord;

236And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio

237Commends him to you.

238Ere I ope his letter,

239I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.

240Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;

241Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there

242Will show you his estate.

243Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.

244Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice?

245How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?

246I know he will be glad of our success;

247We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

248I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

249There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,

250That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek:

251Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the world

252Could turn so much the constitution

253Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!

254With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,

255And I must freely have the half of anything

256That this same paper brings you.

257O sweet Portia,

258Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words

259That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,

260When I did first impart my love to you,

261I freely told you, all the wealth I had

262Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;

263And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady,

264Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

265How much I was a braggart. When I told you

266My state was nothing, I should then have told you

267That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,

268I have engaged myself to a dear friend,

269Engaged my friend to his mere enemy,

270To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;

271The paper as the body of my friend,

272And every word in it a gaping wound,

273Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?

274Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?

275From Tripolis, from Mexico and England,

276From Lisbon, Barbary and India?

277And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch

278Of merchant-marring rocks?

279Not one, my lord.

280Besides, it should appear, that if he had

281The present money to discharge the Jew,

282He would not take it. Never did I know

283A creature, that did bear the shape of man,

284So keen and greedy to confound a man:

285He plies the duke at morning and at night,

286And doth impeach the freedom of the state,

287If they deny him justice: twenty merchants,

288The duke himself, and the magnificoes

289Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;

290But none can drive him from the envious plea

291Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.

292When I was with him I have heard him swear

293To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,

294That he would rather have Antonio's flesh

295Than twenty times the value of the sum

296That he did owe him: and I know, my lord,

297If law, authority and power deny not,

298It will go hard with poor Antonio.

299Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?

300The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,

301The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit

302In doing courtesies, and one in whom

303The ancient Roman honour more appears

304Than any that draws breath in Italy.

305What sum owes he the Jew?

306For me three thousand ducats.

307What, no more?

308Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond;

309Double six thousand, and then treble that,

310Before a friend of this description

311Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.

312First go with me to church and call me wife,

313And then away to Venice to your friend;

314For never shall you lie by Portia's side

315With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold

316To pay the petty debt twenty times over:

317When it is paid, bring your true friend along.

318My maid Nerissa and myself meantime

319Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!

320For you shall hence upon your wedding-day:

321Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer:

322Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.

323But let me hear the letter of your friend.

324[Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all

325miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is

326very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since

327in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all

328debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but

329see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your

330pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come,

331let not my letter.

332O love, dispatch all business, and be gone!

333Since I have your good leave to go away,

334I will make haste: but, till I come again,

335No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,

336No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.

1Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;

2This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

3Gaoler, look to him.

4Hear me yet, good Shylock.

5I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond:

6I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

7Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause;

8But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:

9The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,

10Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond

11To come abroad with him at his request.

12I pray thee, hear me speak.

13I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:

14I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.

15I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,

16To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield

17To Christian intercessors. Follow not;

18I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.

19It is the most impenetrable cur

20That ever kept with men.

21Let him alone:

22I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

23He seeks my life; his reason well I know:

24I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures

25Many that have at times made moan to me;

26Therefore he hates me.

27I am sure the duke

28Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

29The duke cannot deny the course of law:

30For the commodity that strangers have

31With us in Venice, if it be denied,

32Will much impeach the justice of his state;

33Since that the trade and profit of the city

34Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:

35These griefs and losses have so bated me,

36That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh

37To-morrow to my bloody creditor.

38Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come

39To see me pay his debt, and then I care not!

1Madam, although I speak it in your presence,

2You have a noble and a true conceit

3Of godlike amity; which appears most strongly

4In bearing thus the absence of your lord.

5But if you knew to whom you show this honour,

6How true a gentleman you send relief,

7How dear a lover of my lord your husband,

8I know you would be prouder of the work

9Than customary bounty can enforce you.

10I never did repent for doing good,

11Nor shall not now: for in companions

12That do converse and waste the time together,

13Whose souls do bear an equal yoke Of love,

14There must be needs a like proportion

15Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit;

16Which makes me think that this Antonio,

17Being the bosom lover of my lord,

18Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,

19How little is the cost I have bestow'd

20In purchasing the semblance of my soul

21From out the state of hellish misery!

22This comes too near the praising of myself;

23Therefore no more of it: hear other things.

24Lorenzo, I commit into your hands

25The husbandry and manage of my house

26Until my lord's return: for mine own part,

27I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow

28To live in prayer and contemplation,

29Only attended by Nerissa here,

30Until her husband and my lord's return:

31There is a monastery two miles off;

32And there will we abide. I do desire you

33Not to deny this imposition;

34The which my love and some necessity

35Now lays upon you.

36Madam, with all my heart;

37I shall obey you in all fair commands.

38My people do already know my mind,

39And will acknowledge you and Jessica

40In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

41And so farewell, till we shall meet again.

42Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

43I wish your ladyship all heart's content.

44I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased

45To wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica.

46Now, Balthasar,

47As I have ever found thee honest-true,

48So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,

49And use thou all the endeavour of a man

50In speed to Padua: see thou render this

51Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario;

52And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,

53Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed

54Unto the tranect, to the common ferry

55Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,

56But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.

57Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

58Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand

59That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands

60Before they think of us.

61Shall they see us?

62They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit,

63That they shall think we are accomplished

64With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,

65When we are both accoutred like young men,

66I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,

67And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

68And speak between the change of man and boy

69With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps

70Into a manly stride, and speak of frays

71Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,

72How honourable ladies sought my love,

73Which I denying, they fell sick and died;

74I could not do withal; then I'll repent,

75And wish for all that, that I had not killed them;

76And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,

77That men shall swear I have discontinued school

78Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind

79A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,

80Which I will practise.

81Why, shall we turn to men?

82Fie, what a question's that,

83If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!

84But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device

85When I am in my coach, which stays for us

86At the park gate; and therefore haste away,

87For we must measure twenty miles to-day.

1Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father

2are to be laid upon the children: therefore, I

3promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with

4you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter:

5therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you

6are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do

7you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard

8hope neither.

9And what hope is that, I pray thee?

10Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you

11not, that you are not the Jew's daughter.

12That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the

13sins of my mother should be visited upon me.

14Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and

15mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I

16fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are

17gone both ways.

18I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a

19Christian.

20Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians

21enow before; e'en as many as could well live, one by

22another. This making Christians will raise the

23price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we

24shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.

25I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.

26I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if

27you thus get my wife into corners.

28Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I

29are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for

30me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he

31says, you are no good member of the commonwealth,

32for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the

33price of pork.

34I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than

35you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the

36Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.

37It is much that the Moor should be more than reason:

38but if she be less than an honest woman, she is

39indeed more than I took her for.

40How every fool can play upon the word! I think the

41best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence,

42and discourse grow commendable in none only but

43parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.

44That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

45Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid

46them prepare dinner.

47That is done too, sir; only 'cover' is the word.

48Will you cover then, sir?

49Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.

50Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show

51the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray

52tree, understand a plain man in his plain meaning:

53go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve

54in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.

55For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the

56meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in

57to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and

58conceits shall govern.

59O dear discretion, how his words are suited!

60The fool hath planted in his memory

61An army of good words; and I do know

62A many fools, that stand in better place,

63Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word

64Defy the matter. How cheerest thou, Jessica?

65And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,

66How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?

67Past all expressing. It is very meet

68The Lord Bassanio live an upright life;

69For, having such a blessing in his lady,

70He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;

71And if on earth he do not mean it, then

72In reason he should never come to heaven

73Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match

74And on the wager lay two earthly women,

75And Portia one, there must be something else

76Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world

77Hath not her fellow.

78Even such a husband

79Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

80Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

81I will anon: first, let us go to dinner.

82Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.

83No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;

84' Then, howso'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things

85I shall digest it.

86Well, I'll set you forth.

1What, is Antonio here?

2Ready, so please your grace.

3I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer

4A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

5uncapable of pity, void and empty

6From any dram of mercy.

7I have heard

8Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify

9His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate

10And that no lawful means can carry me

11Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose

12My patience to his fury, and am arm'd

13To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,

14The very tyranny and rage of his.

15Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

16He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

17Make room, and let him stand before our face.

18Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

19That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice

20To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought

21Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange

22Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;

23And where thou now exact'st the penalty,

24Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,

25Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,

26But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,

27Forgive a moiety of the principal;

28Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

29That have of late so huddled on his back,

30Enow to press a royal merchant down

31And pluck commiseration of his state

32From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,

33From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd

34To offices of tender courtesy.

35We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

36I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;

37And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn

38To have the due and forfeit of my bond:

39If you deny it, let the danger light

40Upon your charter and your city's freedom.

41You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have

42A weight of carrion flesh than to receive

43Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:

44But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?

45What if my house be troubled with a rat

46And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats

47To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?

48Some men there are love not a gaping pig;

49Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;

50And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,

51Cannot contain their urine: for affection,

52Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood

53Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:

54As there is no firm reason to be render'd,

55Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;

56Why he, a harmless necessary cat;

57Why he, a woollen bagpipe; but of force

58Must yield to such inevitable shame

59As to offend, himself being offended;

60So can I give no reason, nor I will not,

61More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing

62I bear Antonio, that I follow thus

63A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?

64This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

65To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

66I am not bound to please thee with my answers.

67Do all men kill the things they do not love?

68Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

69Every offence is not a hate at first.

70What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

71I pray you, think you question with the Jew:

72You may as well go stand upon the beach

73And bid the main flood bate his usual height;

74You may as well use question with the wolf

75Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

76You may as well forbid the mountain pines

77To wag their high tops and to make no noise,

78When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;

79You may as well do anything most hard,

80As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--

81His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,

82Make no more offers, use no farther means,

83But with all brief and plain conveniency

84Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.

85For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

86What judgment shall I dread, doing

87Were in six parts and every part a ducat,

88I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

89How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?

90What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

91You have among you many a purchased slave,

92Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

93You use in abject and in slavish parts,

94Because you bought them: shall I say to you,

95Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

96Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds

97Be made as soft as yours and let their palates

98Be season'd with such viands? You will answer

99'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you:

100The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,

101Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.

102If you deny me, fie upon your law!

103There is no force in the decrees of Venice.

104I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

105Upon my power I may dismiss this court,

106Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

107Whom I have sent for to determine this,

108Come here to-day.

109My lord, here stays without

110A messenger with letters from the doctor,

111New come from Padua.

112Bring us the letter; call the messenger.

113Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!

114The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,

115Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

116I am a tainted wether of the flock,

117Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit

118Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me

119You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,

120Than to live still and write mine epitaph.

121Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

122From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.

123Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

124To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

125Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

126Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,

127No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness

128Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

129No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

130O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!

131And for thy life let justice be accused.

132Thou almost makest me waver in my faith

133To hold opinion with Pythagoras,

134That souls of animals infuse themselves

135Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit

136Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,

137Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,

138And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,

139Infused itself in thee; for thy desires

140Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.

141Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,

142Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:

143Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall

144To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

145This letter from Bellario doth commend

146A young and learned doctor to our court.

147Where is he?

148He attendeth here hard by,

149To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.

150With all my heart. Some three or four of you

151Go give him courteous conduct to this place.

152Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.

153[Reads]

154Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of

155your letter I am very sick: but in the instant that

156your messenger came, in loving visitation was with

157me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I

158acquainted him with the cause in controversy between

159the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er

160many books together: he is furnished with my

161opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the

162greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes

163with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's

164request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of

165years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend

166estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so

167old a head. I leave him to your gracious

168acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his

169commendation.

170You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:

171And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

172Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?

173I did, my lord.

174You are welcome: take your place.

175Are you acquainted with the difference

176That holds this present question in the court?

177I am informed thoroughly of the cause.

178Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

179Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

180Is your name Shylock?

181Shylock is my name.

182Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

183Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

184Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

185You stand within his danger, do you not?

186Ay, so he says.

187Do you confess the bond?

188I do.

189Then must the Jew be merciful.

190On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

191The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

192It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

193Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

194It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

195'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

196The throned monarch better than his crown;

197His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

198The attribute to awe and majesty,

199Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

200But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

201It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

202It is an attribute to God himself;

203And earthly power doth then show likest God's

204When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

205Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

206That, in the course of justice, none of us

207Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

208And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

209The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

210To mitigate the justice of thy plea;

211Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

212Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

213My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

214The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

215Is he not able to discharge the money?

216Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;

217Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,

218I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,

219On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:

220If this will not suffice, it must appear

221That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,

222Wrest once the law to your authority:

223To do a great right, do a little wrong,

224And curb this cruel devil of his will.

225It must not be; there is no power in Venice

226Can alter a decree established:

227'Twill be recorded for a precedent,

228And many an error by the same example

229Will rush into the state: it cannot be.

230A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

231O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!

232I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

233Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

234Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

235An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:

236Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

237No, not for Venice.

238Why, this bond is forfeit;

239And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

240A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off

241Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:

242Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

243When it is paid according to the tenor.

244It doth appear you are a worthy judge;

245You know the law, your exposition

246Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,

247Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

248Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear

249There is no power in the tongue of man

250To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

251Most heartily I do beseech the court

252To give the judgment.

253Why then, thus it is:

254You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

255O noble judge! O excellent young man!