All language subtitles for The Merchant of Venice Part 1 (Jack Gold, 1980)_eng

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.

It wearies me.

You say it wearies you .

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

what stuff 'tis made of,
whereof it is born , I am to Iearn .

And such a want-wit, sadness makes of me,
that I have much ado to know myseIf.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean .

There, where your argosies with portIy saiI,
Iike signiors and rich burghers on the fIood,

or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
do overpeer the petty traffickers

that curtsy to them, do them reverence,
as they fIy by them with their woven wings.

BeIieve me, sir, had I such venture forth,

the better part of my affections
wouId be with my hopes abroad.

I shouId be stiII pIucking the grass,
to know where sits the wind,

peering in maps for ports and piers and roads

and every object that might make me fear
misfortune to my venture,

out of doubt wouId make me sad.

My wind cooIing my broth
wouId bIow me to an ague

when I thought what harm
a wind too great might do at sea.

I shouId not see the sandy hourgIass run ,
but I shouId think of shaIIows and of fIats,

and see my weaIthy Andrew dock'd in sand,

vaiIing her high-top Iower than her ribs
to kiss her buriaI.

ShouId I go to church and see
the hoIy edifice of stone,

and not bethink me straight on dangerous rocks,

which touching but my gentIe vesseI's side,
wouId scatter aII her spices on the stream,

enrobe the roaring waters with my siIks,

and, in a word, but even now worth this,
and now worth nothing?

ShaII I have the thought to think on this,

and shaII I Iack the thought that such a thing
bechanced wouId make me sad?

But teII not me. I know,
Antonio is sad to think upon his merchandise.

BeIieve me, no. I thank my fortune for it,

my ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
nor to one pIace,

nor is my whoIe estate
upon the fortune of this present year.

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

Why, then you are in Iove.

Fie, fie!

Not in Iove neither?

Then Iet us say that you are sad,
because you are not merry.

And 'twere as easy for you to Iaugh and Ieap
and say you are merry,

Now, by two-headed Janus,
nature hath framed strange feIIows in her time.

Some that wiII evermore peep through their eyes
and Iaugh Iike parrots at a bagpiper,

and other of such vinegar aspect
that they'II not show their teeth in way of smiIe,

though Nestor swear the jest be IaughabIe.

Here comes Bassanio, your most nobIe
kinsman , Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye weII.

We Ieave you now with better company.

I wouId have stay'd tiII I had made you merry,
if worthier friends had not prevented me.

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business caIIs on you
and you embrace the occasion to depart.

Good morrow, my good Iords.

Good signiors both, when shaII we Iaugh?

Say, when ? You grow exceeding strange.
Must it be so?

We'II make our Ieisures to attend on yours.

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found
Antonio, we two wiII Ieave you ,

but at dinner-time, I pray you ,
have in mind where we must meet.

- I wiII not faiI you .
- You Iook not weII, Signior Antonio!

You have too much respect upon the worId!

They Iose it that do buy it with much care.

BeIieve me, you are marveIIousIy changed.

I hoId the worId but as the worId, Gratiano,

a stage where every man must pIay a part,
and mine a sad one.

Let me pIay the fooI.

With mirth and Iaughter, Iet oId wrinkIes come,
or Iet my Iiver rather heat with wine,

than my heart cooI with mortifying groans.

Why shouId a man , whose bIood is warm within ,
sit Iike his grandsire cut in aIabaster,

sIeep when he wakes
and creep into the jaundice by being peevish?

I teII thee what, Antonio,

I Iove thee,

and it is my Iove that speaks.

There are a sort of men whose visages
do cream and mantIe Iike a standing pond,

and do a wiIfuI stiIIness entertain ,

with purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,

as who shouId say, ''I am Sir OracIe,
and when I ope my Iips, Iet no dog bark!''

O, my Antonio, I do know of these who therefore
onIy are reputed wise for saying nothing.

When , I am very sure, if they shouId speak,
wouId aImost damn those ears,

which, hearing them,
wouId caII their brothers fooIs.

I'II teII thee more of this another time.

But fish not with this meIanchoIy bait,
for this fooI gudgeon , this opinion .

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye weII awhiIe.

I'II end my exhortation after dinner.

WeII, we wiII Ieave you then tiII dinner-time.

I must be one of these same dumb wise men ,
for Gratiano never Iets me speak.

WeII, keep me company but two years moe,

thou shaIt not know
the sound of thine own tongue.

Fare you weII. I'II grow a taIker for this gear.

Thanks, i' faith, for siIence is onIy commendabIe

in a neat's tongue dried
and a maid not vendibIe.

Is that anything now?

Gratiano speaks an infinite deaI of nothing,
more than any man in aII Venice.

His reasons are as two grains of wheat
hid in two busheIs of chaff.

You shaII seek aII day ere you find them,

and when you have them,
they are not worth the search.

WeII, teII me now what Iady is the same
to whom you swore a secret piIgrimage,

that you today promised to teII me of?

'Tis not unknown to you , Antonio,
how much I have disabIed mine estate,

by something showing a more sweIIing port
than my faint means wouId grant continuance.

Nor do I now make moan to be abridged
from such a nobIe rate,

but my chief care is to come fairIy off
from the great debts,

wherein my time something too prodigaI
hath Ieft me gaged.

To you , Antonio, I owe the most,
in money...and in Iove,

and from your Iove, I have a warranty
to unburden aII my pIots and purposes

how to get cIear of aII the debts I owe.

I pray you , good Bassanio, Iet me know it.

And if it stand, as you yourseIf stiII do,
within the eye of honour, be assured,

my purse, my person , my extremest means,
Iie aII unIock'd to your occasions.

In my schooIdays, when I had Iost one shaft,
I shot his feIIow of the seIf-same fIight

the seIf-same way with more advised watch,

to find the other forth, and by adventuring both,
I oft found both.

I urge this chiIdhood proof,
because what foIIows is pure innocence.

I owe you much, and, Iike a wiIfuI youth,
that which I owe is Iost,

but, if you pIease, to shoot another arrow
that seIf way, which you did shoot the first,

I do not doubt, as I wiII watch the aim,

or to find both, or bring your Iatter hazard back
again , and thankfuIIy rest debtor for the first.

You know me weII, and herein spend but time
to wind about my Iove with circumstance.

And out of doubt, you do me now more wrong
in making question of my uttermost,

than if you had made waste of aII I have.

Then do but say to me what I shouId do,
that in your knowIedge may by me be done,

and I am prest unto it.

Therefore, speak.

In BeImont, is a Iady richIy Ieft.

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
of wondrous virtues.

Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechIess messages.

Her name is Portia, nothing undervaIued
to Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.

Nor is the wide worId ignorant of her worth,

for the four winds bIow in from every coast
renowned suitors,

and her sunny Iocks hang on her tempIes
Iike a goIden fIeece,

which makes her seat of BeImont CoIchos'
strand, and many Jasons come in quest of her.

O, my Antonio, had I but the means to hoId
a rivaI pIace with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift,
that I shouId questionIess be fortunate!

Thou know'st that aII my fortunes are at sea.

Neither have I money nor commodity
to raise a present sum.

Therefore go forth,
try what my credit can in Venice do.

That shaII be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
to furnish thee to BeImont, to fair Portia.

Go, presentIy inquire, and so wiII I,
where money is,

and I no question make to have it
of my trust or for my sake.

By my troth, Nerissa,
my IittIe body is aweary of this great worId.

You wouId be, sweet madam, if your miseries

were in the same abundance
as your good fortunes are.

And yet, for aught I see,

they are as sick that surfeit with too much
as they that starve with nothing.

It is no mean happiness therefore,
to be seated in the mean .

SuperfIuity comes sooner by white hairs,
but competency Iives Ionger.

Good sentences and weII pronounced.

They wouId be better, if weII foIIowed.

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

chapeIs had been churches
and poor men 's cottages princes' paIaces.

It is a good divine
that foIIows his own instructions.

I can easier teach twenty
what were good to be done,

than be one of the twenty
to foIIow mine own teaching.

The brain may devise Iaws for the bIood,
but a hot temper Ieaps o'er a coId decree.

Such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er
the meshes of good counseI the crippIe.

But this reasoning is not in the fashion
to choose me a husband.

O, me, the word ''choose''.

I may neither choose whom I wouId,
nor refuse whom I disIike.

So is the wiII of a Iiving daughter
curbed by the wiII of a dead father.

Is it not hard, Nerissa,
that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

Your father was ever virtuous,

and hoIy men at their death
have good inspirations.

Therefore the Iottery that he hath devised
in these three chests of goId, siIver and Iead,

whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you ,

wiII, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightIy,
but one whom you shaII rightIy Iove.

But what warmth is there in your affections

towards any of these princeIy suitors
that are aIready come?

I pray thee, over-name them,

and as thou namest them, I wiII describe them,

and, according to my description ,
IeveI at my affection .

First, there is the NeapoIitan prince.

Ay, that's a coIt indeed,
for he doth nothing but taIk of his horse,

and he makes it a great appropriation to his own
good parts, that he can shoe him himseIf.

I am much afeard my Iady
his mother pIayed faIse with a smith.

Then there is the County PaIatine.

He doth nothing but frown , as who shouId say,
''And you wiII not have me, choose.''

He hears merry taIes and smiIes not.

I fear he wiII prove the weeping phiIosopher
when he grows oId,

being so fuII of unmannerIy sadness in his youth.

I had rather be married to a death's head
with a bone in his mouth than to either of these.

God defend me from these two.

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

God made him,
and therefore Iet him pass for a man .

In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker,
but he...

Why, he hath a horse
better than the NeapoIitan 's,

a better bad habit of frowning
than the County PaIatine.

He is every man in no man .

If a throstIe sing, he faIIs straight a capering.
He wiII fence with his own shadow.

If I shouId marry him,
I shouId marry twenty husbands.

If he wouId despise me, I wouId forgive him,

for if he Iove me to madness,
I shaII never requite him.

What say you , then , to FaIconbridge,
the young baron of EngIand?

You know I say nothing to him,
for he understands not me, nor I him.

He hath neither Latin , French, nor ItaIian ,

and you wiII come into the court and swear
that I have a poor pennyworth in the EngIish.

Oh, he is a proper man 's picture, but, aIas,
who couId converse with a dumb-show?

How oddIy he is suited.

I think he got his doubIet in ItaIy, his round hose
in France, his bonnet in Germany

and his behaviour everywhere.

What think you of the Scottish Iord,
his neighbour?

That he hath a neighbourIy charity in him, for
he borrowed a box of the ear of the EngIishman ,

and swore he wouId pay him again
when he was abIe.

I think the Frenchman became his surety
and seaIed under for another.

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

Very viIeIy in the morning, when he is sober,

and most viIeIy in the afternoon ,
when he is drunk.

When he is best, he is a IittIe worse than a man ,

and when he is worst,
he is a IittIe better than a beast.

And the worst faII that ever feII,
I hope I shaII make shift to go without him.

If he shouId offer to choose,
and choose the right casket,

you shouId refuse to perform your father's wiII,
if you shouId refuse to accept him.

Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee,

set a deep gIass of Rhenish wine
on the contrary casket,

for if the deviI be within and that temptation
without, I know he wiII choose it.

I wiII do anything, Nerissa,
ere I wiII be married to a sponge.

You need not fear, Iady,
the having any of these Iords.

They have acquainted me
with their determinations,

which is, indeed, to return to their home
and to troubIe you with no more suit,

unIess you may be won by some other sort

than your father's imposition
depending on the caskets.

If I Iive to be as oId as SibyIIa,
I wiII die as chaste as Diana,

unIess I be obtained
by the manner of my father's wiII.

I am gIad this parceI of wooers
are so reasonabIe,

for there is not one among them,
but I dote on his very absence,

and I pray God, grant them a fair departure.

Do you not remember, Iady, in your father's time,
a Venetian , a schoIar and a soIdier,

that came hither
in company of the Marquis de Montferrat?

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio,

as I think, so was he caIIed.

True, madam.

He, of aII the men that ever my fooIish eyes
Iooked upon , is the best deserving a fair Iady.

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

The four strangers seek for you , madam,
to take their Ieave,

and there is a forerunner come from a fifth,
the Prince of Morocco,

who brings word,
the prince, his master, wiII be here tonight.

If I couId bid the fifth weIcome with
so good heart as I bid the other four fareweII,

I shouId be gIad of his approach.

If he have the condition of a saint
and the compIexion of a deviI,

I had rather he shouId shrive me than wive me.

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.

WhiIes we shut the gate upon one wooer,
another knocks at the door.

Three thousand ducats?

WeII...

Ay, sir, for three months.

For three months?

WeII...

For the which, as I toId you ,
Antonio shaII be bound.

Antonio shaII become bound?

WeII...

May you stead me? WiII you pIeasure me?

ShaII I know your answer?

Three thousand ducats for three months
and Antonio bound.

Your answer to that?

Antonio is a good man ?

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

Oh, no, no, no.

My meaning in saying he is a good man is to
have you understand me that he is sufficient.

Yet his means are in supposition .

He hath an argosy bound to TripoIis,
another to the Indies.

I understand, moreover, upon the RiaIto,
he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for EngIand,

and other ventures he hath squandered abroad.

But ships are but boards, saiIors but men .

There be Iand rats and water rats,
Iand thieves and water thieves.

I mean pirates.

And then there is the periI
of waters, winds and rocks.

The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient.

Three thousand ducats.

- I think I may take his bond.
- Be assured you may.

I wiII be assured I may, and,
that I may be assured, I wiII bethink me.

May I speak with Antonio?

- If it pIease you to dine with us?
- Yes, to smeII pork?

To eat of the habitation , which your prophet
the Nazarite conjured the deviI into.

I wiII buy with you , seII with you , taIk with you ,
waIk with you , and so foIIowing,

but I wiII not eat with you ,
drink with you , nor pray with you .

What news on the RiaIto?
Who is he comes here?

This is Signior Antonio.

How Iike a fawning pubIican he Iooks!

I hate him for he is a Christian , but more for
that in Iow simpIicity, he Iends out money gratis

and brings down the rate of usance
here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I wiII feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

He hates our sacred nation , and he raiIs, even
there where merchants most do congregate,

on me, my bargains and my weII-won thrift,
which he caIIs ''interest''.

Cursed be my tribe, if I forgive him!

ShyIock?

Do you hear?

I am debating of my present store, and,
by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantIy raise up
the gross of fuII three thousand ducats.

What of that? TubaI, a weaIthy Hebrew
of my tribe, wiII furnish me.

But soft! How many months do you desire?

Rest you fair, good signior.

Your worship was the Iast man in our mouths.

ShyIock, aIbeit I neither Iend nor borrow
by taking nor of giving of excess,

yet, to suppIy the ripe wants of my friend,
I'II break a custom.

- Is he yet possess'd how much ye wouId?
- Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

- And for three months.
- I had forgot.

Three months, you toId me so.

WeII, then , your bond.

Now, Iet me see.

But, hear you ,

methought you said you neither Iend nor borrow
upon advantage.

I do never use it.

When Jacob grazed his uncIe Laban 's sheep...

This Jacob from our hoIy Abram was,

as his wise mother wrought in his behaIf,
the third possessor. Ay, he was the third.

And what of him? Did he take interest?

No, not take interest,
not, as you wouId say, directIy interest.

Mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himseIf were compromised
that aII the eanIings,

which were streak'd and pied,
shouId faII as Jacob's hire,

the ewes, being rank,
in the end of autumn turned to the rams.

And, when the work of generation was between
these wooIIy breeders in the act,

the skiIfuI shepherd peeI'd me certain wands.

And, in the doing of the deed of kind,
he stuck them up before the fuIsome ewes,

who then conceiving did in eanIing time faII
parti-coIour'd Iambs, and those were Jacob's.

This was a way to thrive, and he was bIest.

And thrift is bIessing, if men steaI it not.

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

a thing not in his power to bring to pass, but
sway'd and fashion 'd by the hand of heaven .

Was this inserted to make interest good?
Or is your goId and siIver ewes and rams?

I cannot teII, I make it breed as fast.

But note me, signior...

Mark you this, Bassanio,
the deviI can cite scripture for his purpose.

An eviI souI producing hoIy witness
is Iike a viIIain with a smiIing cheek,

a goodIy appIe rotten at the heart.

O, what a goodIy outside faIsehood hath!

Three thousand ducats.

'Tis a good round sum.

Three months from tweIve.

Now, Iet me see the rate.

WeII, ShyIock, shaII we be behoIding to you?

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft
in the RiaIto

you have rated me
about my money and my usances.

StiII, have I borne it with a patient shrug,
for sufferance is the badge of aII our tribe.

You caII me ''misbeIiever'', ''cut-throat dog'',

and spit upon my Jewish gabardine,
and aII for use of that which is mine own .

WeII, then , it now appears you need my heIp.

Go to, then ,

you come to me, and you say
''ShyIock, we wouId have moneys.'' You say so.

You that did void your rheum upon my beard

and foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
over your threshoId.

Moneys is your suit. What shouId I say to you?

ShouId I not say, ''Hath a dog money?''

''Is it possibIe
a cur can Iend three thousand ducats?''

Or shaII I bend Iow and in a bondman 's key,
with bated breath and whispering humbIeness,

say this,
''Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday Iast,

you spurn 'd me such a day,
another time you caII'd me dog,

and for these courtesies,
I'II Iend you thus much moneys?''

I am as Iike to caII thee so again ,
to spit on thee again , to spurn thee, too.

If thou wiIt Iend this money,
Iend it not as to thy friends,

for when did friendship
take a breed of barren metaI for his friend?

But Iend it rather to thine enemy,

who, if he break, thou mayst with better face
exact the penaIty.

Why, Iook you , how you storm.

I wouId be friends with you and have your Iove,
forget the shames that you have stain 'd me with,

suppIy your present wants and take no doit of
usance for my moneys, and you'II not hear me.

- This is kind I offer.
- This were kindness.

This kindness wiII I show. Go with me
to a notary, seaI me there your singIe bond,

and, in a merry sport,

if you repay me not on such a day,
in such a pIace,

such sum or sums
as are express'd in the condition ,

Iet the forfeit be nominated
for an equaI pound of your fair fIesh,

to be cut off and taken
in what part of your body pIeaseth me.

Content, i' faith, I'II seaI to such a bond
and say there is much kindness in the Jew.

You shaII not seaI to such a bond for me.

I'd rather dweII in my necessity.

Why, fear not, man , I wiII not forfeit it.

Within these two months,
that's a month before this bond expires,

I do expect return of thrice three times
the vaIue of this bond.

O, father Abram, what these Christians are,

whose own hard deaIings teaches them suspect
the thoughts of others! Pray you , teII me this.

If he shouId break his day, what shouId I gain
by the exaction of the forfeiture?

A pound of man 's fIesh taken from a man
is not so estimabIe, profitabIe neither,

as fIesh of muttons, beefs, or goats.

I say, to buy his favour, I extend this friendship.

If he wiII take it, so, if not, adieu .

And, for my Iove, I pray you wrong me not.

Yes, ShyIock, I wiII seaI unto this bond.

Then meet me forthwith at the notary's.

Give him direction for this merry bond,
and I wiII go and purse the ducats straight.

See to my house, Ieft in the fearfuI guard of an
unthrifty knave, and presentIy I wiII be with you .

Hie thee, gentIe Jew.

The Hebrew wiII turn Christian . He grows kind.

I Iike not fair terms and a viIIain 's mind.

Come on , in this there can be no dismay.

My ships come home a month before the day.

MisIike me not for my compIexion ,

the shadow'd Iivery of the burnish'd sun ,
to whom I am a neighbour and near bred.

Bring me the fairest creature northward born ,
where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicIes,

and Iet us make incision for your Iove,
to prove whose bIood is reddest, his or mine.

I teII thee, Iady, this aspect of mine
hath fear'd the vaIiant.

By my Iove, I swear, the best-regarded virgins
of our cIime have Ioved it, too.

I wouId not change this hue,
except to steaI your thoughts, my gentIe queen .

In terms of choice, I am not soIeIy Ied
by nice direction of a maiden 's eyes.

Besides, the Iottery of my destiny
bars me the right of voIuntary choosing.

But if my father had not scanted me
and hedged me by his wit,

to yieId myseIf his wife who wins me
by that means, I toId you ,

yourseIf, renowned prince, then stood as fair as
any comer I have Iook'd on yet for my affection .

Even for that, I thank you .

Therefore, I pray you , Iead me to the caskets
to try my fortune.

Aaaargh!

By this scimitar
that sIew the Sophy and a Persian prince,

that won three fieIds of SuItan SoIyman ,

I wouId outstare the sternest eyes that Iook,

outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,

pIuck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

yea, mock the Iion when he roars for prey,
to win thee, Iady.

But, aIas the whiIe!

If HercuIes and Lichas pIay at dice,
which is the better man ?

The greater throw may turn
by fortune from the weaker hand.

So is AIcides beaten by his page.

And so may I, bIind fortune Ieading me,

miss that which one unworthier may attain ,
and die with grieving.

You must take your chance,
and either not attempt to choose at aII,

or swear before you choose,
if you choose wrong,

never to speak to Iady afterward
in way of marriage.

Therefore be advised.

Nor wiII not.

Come, bring me unto my chance.

First, forward to the tempIe.

After dinner, your hazard shaII be made.

Good fortune then ,

to make me bIest or cursed'st among men .

CertainIy my conscience wiII serve me
to run from this Jew, my master.

The fiend is at mine eIbow and tempts me
saying to me,

(GruffIy ) ''Gobbo, LaunceIot Gobbo'',

''good LaunceIot'',

or ''good Gobbo'',

or ''good LaunceIot Gobbo,

use your Iegs, take the start, run away.''

''Take heed, honest LaunceIot,

take heed, honest Gobbo,

or, as aforesaid, ''Honest LaunceIot Gobbo,
do not run , scorn running with thy heeIs.''

WeII, the most courageous fiend bids me pack.

''(GruffIy ) Via!'' says the fiend.

''Away!'' says the fiend, ''for the heavens, rouse
up a brave mind,'' says the fiend, ''and run .''

WeII, my conscience, hanging about the neck
of my heart, says very wiseIy to me,

''Mine honest friend LaunceIot,
being an honest man 's son ...''

or rather an honest woman 's son ,

for, indeed, my father did something smack,
something grow to, he had a kind of taste.

WeII, my conscience says,
''LaunceIot, budge not.''

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

''Conscience,'' say I,''you counseI weII.''

''Fiend,'' say I, ''you counseI weII.''

To be ruIed by my conscience,
I shouId stay with the Jew my master,

who, God bIess the mark, is a kind of deviI.

And, to run away from the Jew,
I shouId be ruIed by the fiend,

who, saving your reverence, is the deviI himseIf.

CertainIy the Jew is the very deviI incarnation ,

and in my conscience...

My conscience is but a kind of hard conscience,
to offer to counseI me to stay with the Jew.

The fiend gives more friendIy counseI.

I wiII run , fiend.

My heeIs are at your commandment.

I wiII run .

Master,

young man , you , I pray you ,
which is the way to master Jew's?

O, heavens, this is my true-begotten father,

who, being more than sand-bIind,
high-graveI bIind, knows me not.

I wiII try confusions with him.

Master, young gentIeman , I pray you ,
which is the way to master Jew's?

Turn upon your right hand at the next turning,
but, at the next turning of aII, on your Ieft.

Marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand,
but turn down indirectIy to the Jew's house.

By God's sonties, 'twiII be a hard way to hit.

Can you teII me whether one LaunceIot,
that dweIIs with him, dweII with him or no?

TaIk you of young Master LaunceIot?

Mark me now. Now I wiII raise the waters.

TaIk you of young Master LaunceIot?

No master, but a poor man 's son .

His father, though I say it,
is an honest, exceeding poor man

and, God be thanked, weII to Iive.

WeII, Iet his father be what a' wiII,
we taIk of young Master LaunceIot.

Your worship's friend and LaunceIot.

But I pray you , ergo, oId man , ergo, I beseech
you , taIk you of young Master LaunceIot?

Of LaunceIot, sir, an 't pIease your mastership.

Ergo, Master LaunceIot.

TaIk not of Master LaunceIot, father,

for that gentIeman , according to Fates
and Destinies and such odd sayings,

the Sisters Three, and such branches
of Iearning, is indeed deceased,

or, as you wouId say in pIain terms,
gone to heaven .

Marry, God forbid!

Do I Iook Iike a hoveI post, a cudgeI,
a staff or a prop?

Do you know me, father?

AIack the day, I know you not, young gentIeman .

But, I pray you , teII me, is my boy,
God rest his souI, aIive or dead?

Do you not know me, father?

AIack, sir, I am sand-bIind.

I know you not.

Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes,
you might faiI of knowing me.

It's a wise father that knows his own chiId.

WeII, oId man , I wiII teII you news of your son .

Give me your bIessing.

Truth wiII come to Iight,

murder cannot be hid Iong,

a man 's son maybe, but in the end, truth wiII out.

Pray you , sir, stand up.

I am sure you are not LaunceIot, my boy.

Pray you , Iet's have no more fooIing about it,
but give me your bIessing.

I am LaunceIot, your boy that was,
your son that is, your chiId that shaII be.

I cannot think you are my son .

I know not what I shaII think of that.

But I am LaunceIot, the Jew's man ,
and I am sure Margery, your wife, is my mother.

Her name is Margery, indeed.

I'II be sworn , if thou be LaunceIot,
thou art my own fIesh and bIood.

Lord worshipped might he be!

What a beard hast thou got!

Thou hast more hair on thy chin
than Dobbin my fiII-horse has on his taiI.

It shouId seem, then ,
that Dobbin 's taiI grows backward.

I am sure he had more hair of his taiI
than I have of my face when I Iast saw him.

Lord, how art thou changed!

How dost thou and thy master agree?

I have brought him a present.
How 'gree thee now?

WeII, weII...

But, for mine own part,
as I have set up my rest to run away,

so I wiII not rest tiII I have run some ground.

Give him a present! Give him a haIter.

I am famished in his service.

You may teII every finger I have with my ribs.

Father, I am gIad you are come.

Give me your present to one Master Bassanio,
who, indeed, gives rare new Iiveries.

If I serve not him,
I wiII run as far as God has any ground.

O rare fortune!

Here comes the man . To him, father.

For I am a Jew, if I serve a Jew any Ionger.

You may do so, but Iet it be so hasted

that supper be ready
at the farthest by five of the cIock.

See these Ietters deIivered,
put the Iiveries to making,

and desire Gratiano
to come anon to my Iodging.

To him, father.

God bIess your worship!

Gramercy! WouIdst thou aught with me?

Here's my son , sir, a poor boy.

Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man ,
that wouId, sir, as my father shaII specify...

He hath a great infection , sir,
as one wouId say, to serve.

Indeed, sir, the short and the Iong is,
I serve the Jew,

and have a desire, as my father shaII specify.

He and his master, sir, saving your worship's
reverence, are scarce cater-cousins.

To be very brief, sir, the truth is the Jew,
having done me wrong,

doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope,
an oId man , shaII frutify unto you .

I have here a dish of doves that I wouId bestow
on your worship, and my suit is...

To be very brief, sir,
the suit is impertinent to myseIf,

as your worship shaII know
by this honest oId man ,

and, though I say it,
though oId man , yet poor man , my father.

One speak for both.

What wouId you?

Serve you , sir.

That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

I know thee weII.

Thou hast obtain 'd thy suit.

ShyIock thy master spoke with me this day,
and hath preferr'd thee,

if it be preferment to Ieave a rich Jew's service,
to become the foIIower of so poor a gentIeman .

The oId proverb is weII parted
between my master ShyIock and you , sir.

You have the grace of God, sir,
and he hath enough.

Thou speak'st it weII.

Go, father, with thy son .

Take Ieave of thy oId master
and inquire my Iodging out.

Give him a Iivery more guarded than his feIIows.
See it done.

Father, in .

I cannot get a service, no.

I have ne'er a tongue in my head.

WeII, if any man in ItaIy have a fairer tabIe,
which doth offer to swear upon a book,

I shaII have good fortune.

Go to, here's a simpIe Iine of Iife.

Here's a smaII trifIe of wives.

AIas, fifteen wives is nothing!

EIeven widows and nine maids
is a simpIe coming-in for one man .

And then to 'scape drowning thrice,

and to be in periI of my Iife
with the edge of a feather bed,

here are simpIe scapes.

WeII, if fortune be a woman ,
she's a good wench for this gear.

Father, come.

I'II take my Ieave of the Jew in a twinkIing.

I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this.

These things being bought
and orderIy bestow'd, return in haste,

for I do feast tonight
my best-esteem'd acquaintance. Hie thee.

Go.

My best endeavours shaII be done herein .

Where is your master?

Yonder, sir, he waIks.

- Signior Bassanio!
- Gratiano!

- I have a suit to you .
- You have obtain 'd it.

You must not deny me.
I must go with you to BeImont.

Why then you must.

But hear thee, Gratiano,

thou art too wiId, too rude and boId of voice.

Parts which become thee happiIy enough,
and in such eyes as ours appear not fauIts.

But where thou art not known , why,
there they show something too IiberaI.

Pray thee, take pain to aIIay with some
coId drops of modesty thy skipping spirit,

Iest, through thy wiId behaviour,
I be misconstrued in the pIace I go to,

and Iose my hopes.

Signior Bassanio, hear me.

If I do not put on a sober habit, taIk with respect
and swear but now and then ,

wear prayer books in my pocket, Iook demureIy,
nay more,

whiIe grace is saying, hood my eyes
thus with mine hat, and sigh and say ''Amen ,''

use aII the observance of civiIity, Iike one weII
studied in a sad ostent to pIease his grandam,

never trust me more.

WeII, we shaII see your bearing.

Nay, but I bar tonight.
You shaII not gauge me by what we do tonight.

No, that were pity. I wouId entreat you rather
to put on your boIdest suit of mirth,

for we have friends that purpose merriment.
But fare thee weII. I have some business.

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest.
But we wiII visit you at supper-time.

I am sorry thou wiIt Ieave my father so.

Our house is heII, and thou , a merry deviI,
didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

But fare thee weII.

There is a ducat for thee.

And, LaunceIot, soon at supper shaIt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest.

Give him this Ietter. Do it secretIy.

And so fareweII. I wouId not have my father
see me in taIk with thee.

Adieu . Tears exhibit my tongue.

Most beautifuI pagan , most sweet Jew,

if a Christian did not pIay the knave
and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu .

Adieu ... These fooIish drops
do something drown my manIy spirit.

Adieu .

FareweII, good LaunceIot.

AIack,

what heinous sin is it in me
to be ashamed to be my father's chiId!

But though I am a daughter to his bIood,
I am not to his manners.

O, Lorenzo,

If thou keep promise, I shaII end this strife,
become a Christian and thy Ioving wife.

Nay, we wiII sIink away in supper-time, disguise
us at my Iodging and return , aII in an hour.

We have not made good preparation .

We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.

'Tis viIe, unIess it may be quaintIy order'd,
and better in my mind not undertook.

'Tis now but four o'cIock.
We have two hours to furnish us.

Friend LaunceIot, what's the news?

An it shaII pIease you to break up this,
it shaII seem to signify.

ALL: Uh-hmm?

I know the hand, in faith.

'Tis a fair hand. And whiter than
the paper it writ on is the fair hand that writ.

Love news, in faith.

- By your Ieave, sir.
- Whither goest thou?

Marry, sir, to bid my oId master the Jew
to sup tonight with my new master the Christian .

HoId. Here, take this.

TeII gentIe Jessica I wiII not faiI her.

Speak it privateIy.

Go, gentIemen ,
wiII you prepare you for this masque tonight?

I am provided of a torchbearer.

- Ay, marry, I'II be gone about it straight.
- And so wiII I.

Meet me and Gratiano
at Gratiano's Iodging some hour hence.

- 'Tis good we do so.
- Was not that Ietter from fair Jessica?

I must needs teII thee aII.

She hath directed
how I shaII take her from her father's house,

what goId and jeweIs she is furnish'd with,
what page's suit she hath in readiness.

If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven ,
it wiII be for his gentIe daughter's sake.

And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
unIess she do it under this excuse,

that she is issue to a faithIess Jew.

Come, go with me. Peruse this as thou goest.

Fair Jessica shaII be my torchbearer.

WeII, thou shaIt see,

thy eyes shaII be thy judge,

the difference of oId ShyIock and Bassanio...

What, Jessica!

Thou shaIt not gormandise,
as thou hast done with me.

What, Jessica!

Nor sIeep and snore, and rend appareI out.

- Why, Jessica, I say!
- Why, Jessica!

Who bids thee caII? I do not bid thee caII.

Your worship was wont to teII me
I couId do nothing without bidding.

CaII you? What is your wiII?

I am bid forth to supper, Jessica.
There are my keys.

But wherefore shouId I go?

I am not bid for Iove.

They fIatter me.

But yet I'II go in hate,
to feed upon the prodigaI Christian .

Jessica, my girI, Iook to my house.

I am right Ioath to go.

There is some iII a-brewing towards my rest,

for I did dream of money bags tonight.

So do I his.

And they have conspired together.

I wiII not say you shaII see a masque.

But if you do, then it was not for nothing

that my nose feII a-bIeeding on BIack Monday
Iast at six o'cIock i' the morning,

faIIing out that year on Ash Wednesday
was four year, in the afternoon .

What, are there masques?

Hear you me, Jessica. Lock up my doors.

And when you hear the drum and
the viIe squeaIing of the wry-neck'd fife,

cIamber not you up to the casements then ,

nor thrust your head into the pubIic street
to gaze on Christian fooIs with varnish'd faces,

- but stop my house's ears.
- Huh?

I mean my casements.

Let not the sound of shaIIow foppery
enter my sober house.

By Jacob's staff, I swear,
I have no mind of feasting forth tonight.

But I wiII go.

Go you before me, sirrah. Say I wiII come.

I wiII go before you , sir.

Mistress, Iook out the window, for aII this.

There wiII come a Christian boy,
wiII be worth a Jewess' eye.

What says that fooI of Hagar's offspring, ha?

His words were, ''FareweII mistress.''
Nothing eIse.

The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder.

SnaiI-sIow in profit,
and he sIeeps by day more than the wiId cat.

Drones hive not with me.

Therefore I part with him,

and part with him to one that I wouId have him
heIp to waste his borrow'd purse.

WeII, Jessica, go in .

Perhaps I wiII return immediateIy.

Do as I bid you .

Shut doors after you .

Fast bind, fast find.

A proverb never staIe in thrifty mind.

FareweII,

and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, Iost.

(Laughter)

This is the penthouse
under which Lorenzo desired us to make stand?

His hour is aImost past.

And it is marveI he out-dweIIs his hour,
for Iovers ever run before the cIock.

O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fIy
to seaI Iove's bonds new-made,

than they are wont
to keep obIiged faith unforfeited.

That ever hoIds. Who riseth from a feast
with that keen appetite that he sits down ?

Where is the horse
that doth untread again his tedious measures

with the unbated fire that he did pace them first?

AII things that are,
are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.

How Iike a younker or a prodigaI
the scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!

How Iike a prodigaI doth she return ,
with over-weather'd ribs and ragged saiIs,

Iean , rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!

Here comes Lorenzo. More of this hereafter.

Sweet friends, your patience for my Iong abode.

Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait.

When you shaII pIease to pIay the thieves
for wives, I'II watch as Iong for you then .

Approach. Here dweIIs my father Jew.

- Hoo!
- (Sneezes)

ALL: Shhh!

(Whispers) Who's within ?

Who are you?

TeII me, for more certainty,
aIbeit I'II swear that I do know your tongue.

Lorenzo, and thy Iove.

Lorenzo, certain , and my Iove indeed,
for who Iove I so much?

And now who knows but you , Lorenzo,
whether I am yours?

Heaven and thy thoughts
are witness that thou art.

Here, catch this casket.

It is worth the pains.

I am gIad 'tis night, you do not Iook on me,
for I am much ashamed of my exchange.

But Iove is bIind and Iovers cannot see
the pretty foIIies that themseIves commit.

For if they couId, Cupid himseIf wouId bIush
to see me thus transformed to a boy.

Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.

They in themseIves, good-sooth,
are too too Iight.

Why, 'tis an office of discovery, Iove,
and I shouId be obscured.

So are you , sweet, even in the IoveIy garnish
of a boy. But come at once.

For the cIose night doth pIay the runaway,
and we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.

I wiII make fast the doors, and giId myseIf with
some more ducats, and be with you straight.

By my hood, a GentiIe and no Jew.

Beshrew me, but I Iove her heartiIy.

For she is wise, if I can judge of her,
and fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

and true she is, as she hath proved herseIf...

(Coins jingIe)

..and therefore, Iike herseIf, wise, fair and true,
shaII she be pIaced in my constant souI.

What, art thou come? On , gentIemen , away!

Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

MAN : Who's there?

Signior Antonio.

Fie, fie, Gratiano.

Where are aII the rest?
'Tis nine o'cIock. Our friends aII stay for you .

No masque tonight. The wind is come about.
Bassanio presentIy wiII go aboard.

I have sent twenty out to seek for you .

I am gIad on 't. I desire no more deIight
than to be under saiI and gone tonight.

Go draw aside the curtains and discover
the severaI caskets to this nobIe prince.

The first, of goId,

who this inscription bears,

''Who chooseth me,
shaII gain what many men desire.''

The second, siIver,

which this promise carries,

''Who chooseth me,
shaII get as much as he deserves.''

This third,

duII Iead,

with warning aII as bIunt,

''Who chooseth me,
must give and hazard aII he hath.''

How shaII I know if I do choose the right?

The one of them contains my picture, prince.

If you choose that, then I am yours withaI.

Some god direct my judgment.

Let me see.

I wiII survey the inscriptions back again .

What says the Ieaden casket?

''Who chooseth me,
must give and hazard aII he hath.''

''Must give?''

For what? For Iead?

Hazard for Iead?

This casket threatens.

Men that hazard aII,
do it in hope of fair advantages.

A goIden mind stoops not to shows of dross.

I'II then nor give nor hazard aught for Iead.

What says the siIver with her virgin hue?

''Who chooseth me,
shaII get as much as he deserves.''

''As much as he deserves.''

Pause there, Morocco,
and weigh thy vaIue with an even hand.

If thou be'st rated by thy estimation ,
thou dost deserve enough,

and yet enough
may not extend so far as to the Iady.

And yet to be afeard of my deserving,
were but a weak disabIing of myseIf.

As much as I deserve? Why, that's the Iady.

I do, in birth, deserve her, and in fortunes,
in graces and in quaIities of breeding.

But more than these, in Iove I do deserve.

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

Let's see once more this saying graved in goId.

''Who chooseth me,
shaII gain what many men desire.''

Why, that's the Iady.

AII the worId desires her.

From the four corners of the earth they come
to kiss this shrine, this mortaI-breathing saint.

The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wiIds
of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now,

for princes to come view fair Portia.

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
spits in the face of heaven ,

is no bar to stop the foreign spirits, but they
come, as o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.

One of these three
contains her heavenIy picture.

Is't Iike that Iead contains her?

'Twere damnation to think so base a thought.

It were too gross
to rib her cerecIoth in the obscure grave.

Or shaII I think in siIver she's immured,
being ten times undervaIued to tried goId?

O sinfuI thought!

Never so rich a gem was set in worse than goId.

They have in EngIand a coin that bears
the figure of an angeI stamped in goId,

but that's inscuIp'd upon .

But here, an angeI in a goIden bed
Iies aII within .

DeIiver me the key.

Here do I choose,

and thrive I as I may!

There, take it, prince,

and if my form Iie there, then I am yours.

O, heII!

What have we here?

A carrion death, within whose empty eye
there is a written scroII.

I'II read the writing.

''AII that gIisters is not goId.

Often have you heard that toId.

Many a man his Iife hath soId,
but my outside to behoId.

GiIded tombs do...worms enfoId.

Had you been as wise as boId,
young in Iimbs, in judgment oId,

your answer had not been inscroII'd.

Fare you weII.

Your suit is coId.''

CoId, indeed, and Iabour Iost.

Then , fareweII, heat, and weIcome, frost.

Portia, adieu .

I have too grieved a heart
to take a tedious Ieave.

Thus Iosers part.

A gentIe riddance.

Draw the curtains, go.

Let aII of his compIexion choose me so.

Why, man , I saw Bassanio under saiI.

With him is Gratiano gone aIong,
and in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

The viIIain Jew with outcries raised the duke,
who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

He came too Iate, the ship was under saiI.

But there the duke was given to understand

that in a gondoIa were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.

Besides, Antonio certified the duke
they were not with Bassanio in his ship.

I never heard a passion so confused,
so strange, outrageous, and so variabIe,

as the dog Jew did utter in the streets.

(As ShyIock) ''My daughter!

O, my ducats!

O, my daughter!

FIed with a Christian !

O, my Christian ducats!

Justice! The Iaw!

My ducats, and my daughter!

A seaIed bag, two seaIed bags of ducats, of
doubIe ducats, stoIen from me by my daughter!

And jeweIs, two stones, two rich and
precious stones, stoIen by my daughter!

Justice! Find the girI.

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

Why, aII the boys in Venice foIIow him, crying,
''His stones, his daughter, and his ducats.''

Let good Antonio Iook he keep his day,
or he shaII pay for this.

Marry, weII remember'd.

I reason 'd with a Frenchman yesterday,
who toId me,

in the narrow seas
that part the French and EngIish,

there miscarried a vesseI
of our country richIy fraught.

I thought upon Antonio when he toId me,
and wish'd in siIence that it were not his.

You were best to teII Antonio what you hear,
yet do not suddenIy, for it may grieve him.

A kinder gentIeman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part.

Bassanio toId him he wouId make
some speed of his return .

He answer'd, ''Do not so.

SIubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
but stay the very riping of the time.

And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,
Iet it not enter in your mind of Iove.

Be merry, and empIoy your chiefest thoughts
to courtship

and such fair ostents of Iove
as shaII convenientIy become you there.''

And even there, his eye being big with tears,
turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

and with affection wondrous sensibIe,
he wrung Bassanio's hand,

and so they parted.

I think he onIy Ioves the worId for him.

I pray thee, Iet us go and find him out

and quicken his embraced heaviness
with some deIight or other.

PORTIA. Quick, I pray thee,
draw the curtain straight.

The Prince of Aragon hath ta'en his oath,
and comes to his eIection presentIy.

BehoId, there stand the caskets, nobIe prince.

If you choose that wherein I am contain 'd,
straight shaII our nuptiaI rites be soIemnised.

But if you faiI, without more speech, my Iord,
you must be gone from hence immediateIy.

I am enjoin 'd by oath to observe three things.

First, never to unfoId to anyone
which casket 'twas I chose.

Next, if I faiI of the right casket, never in my Iife
to woo a maid in way of marriage.

LastIy, if I do faiI in fortune of my choice,
immediateIy to Ieave you and be gone.

To these injunctions every one doth swear
that comes to hazard for my worthIess seIf.

And so have I address'd me.

Fortune now to my heart's hope!

GoId.

SiIver.

And base Iead.

'''Who chooseth me,
must give and hazard aII he hath.''

You shaII Iook fairer, ere I give or hazard.

What says the goIden chest, ha?

Let me see.

'''Who chooseth me,
shaII gain what many men desire.''

What many men desire...

That ''many''
may be meant by the fooI muItitude,

that choose by show,
not Iearning more than the fond eye doth teach,

which pries not to the interior,
but, Iike the martIet,

buiIds in the weather on the outward waII,
even in the force and road of casuaIty.

I wiII not choose what many men desire,
because I wiII not jump with common spirits

and rank me with the barbarous muItitudes.

Why, then , to thee, thou siIver treasure-house.

TeII me once more what titIe thou dost bear.

'''Who chooseth me
shaII get as much as he deserves.''

And weII said, too,

for who shaII go about to cozen fortune
and be honourabIe, without the stamp of merit?

Hmm?

Let none presume
to wear an undeserved dignity.

O, that estates, degrees and offices
were not derived corruptIy,

and that cIear honour
were purchased by the merit of the wearer.

How many then shouId cover that stand bare.

How many be commanded that command.

How much Iow peasantry wouId then
be gIean 'd from the true seed of honour,

and how much honour pick'd from the chaff
and ruin of the times to be new-varnish'd.

( Yawns)

WeII, but to my choice.

'''Who chooseth me,
shaII get as much as he deserves.''

I wiII assume desert.

Give me a key for this,
and instantIy unIock my fortunes here.

Too Iong a pause for that which you find there.

What's here?

The portrait of a bIinking idiot,
presenting me a scheduIe!

I wiII read it.

How much unIike art thou to Portia!

How much unIike my hopes and my deservings!

''Who chooseth me,
shaII have as much as he deserves.''

Did I deserve no more than a fooI's head?
Is that my prize?

Are my deserts no better?

To offend and judge are distinct offices
and of opposed natures.

What's here?

''The fire seven times tried this.

Seven times tried that judgment is,
that did never choose amiss.

Some there be that shadows kiss.

Such have but a shadow's bIiss.

There be fooIs aIive, I wis, siIver'd o'er,
and so was this.

Take what wife you wiII to bed,
I wiII ever be your head.

So be gone, you are sped.''

StiII more fooI I shaII appear
by the time I Iinger here.

Sweet, adieu .

I'II keep my oath,

patientIy to bear my wroth.

Thus hath the candIe singed the moth.

O, these deIiberate fooIs!

When they do choose,
they have the wisdom by their wit to Iose.

The ancient saying is no heresy,
hanging and wiving go by destiny.

Come, draw the curtain , Nerissa.

- Where is my Iady?
- Here. What wouId my Iord?

Madam, there is aIighted at your gate
a young Venetian ,

one that comes before
to signify the approaching of his lord

from whom he bringeth sensible regreets

to wit, besides commends and courteous breath,
gifts of rich vaIue.

Yet I have not seen
so IikeIy an ambassador of Iove.

A day in April never came so sweet

to show how costly summer was at hand
as this fore-spurrer comes before his lord

No more, I pray thee.

I am haIf afeard thou wiIt say anon
he is some kin to thee,

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

Come, come, Nerissa, for I Iong to see
quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerIy.

Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy wiII it be.

Now, what news on the RiaIto?

Why, yet it Iives there uncheck'd

that Antonio hath a ship of rich Iading wrecked
in the narrow seas,

the Goodwins, I think they caII the pIace,
a very dangerous fIat and fataI,

where the carcasses of many a taII ship
Iie buried, as they say,

if my gossip report
be an honest woman of her word.

I wouId she were as Iying a gossip
in that as ever knapped ginger

or made her neighbours beIieve
she wept for the death of a third husband.

But it is true, without any sIips of proIixity
or crossing the pIain highway of taIk,

that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio...

O, that I had a titIe good enough
to keep his name company...

- Come, the fuII stop.
- Hey, what sayest thou?

Why, the end is, he hath Iost a ship.

I wouId it might prove an end to his Iosses.

Let me say ''Amen '' betimes,

Iest the deviI cross my prayer,
for here he comes in the Iikeness of a Jew.

What news among the merchants?

You knew, none so weII, none so weII as you ,
of my daughter's fIight.

That's certain . I, for my part, knew the taiIor
that made the wings she fIew withaI.

And ShyIock, for his own part,
knew the bird was fIedged,

and that it is the compIexion of them aII
to Ieave the dam.

She is damned for it.

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

My own fIesh and bIood to rebeI!

Out upon it, oId carrion !

- RebeIs it at these years?
- Argh!

I say, my daughter is my fIesh and my bIood.

There is more difference between thy fIesh
and hers than between jet and ivory,

more between your bIoods than there is
between red wine and Rhenish.

But teII us, do you hear whether Antonio
have any Ioss at sea or no?

There I have another bad match.

A bankrupt, a prodigaI, who dare scarce
show his head on the RiaIto,

a beggar, that was used
to come so smug upon the mart.

Let him Iook to his bond.

He was wont to caII me usurer.

Let him Iook to his bond.

He was wont to Iend out money
for a Christian courtesy.

Let him Iook to his bond.

Why, I am sure, if he forfeit,
thou wiIt not take his fIesh. What's that good for?

To bait fish withaI.

If it wiII feed nothing eIse, it wiII feed my revenge.

He hath disgraced me,
and hindered me haIf a miIIion ,

Iaughed at my Iosses, mocked at my gains,
scorned my nation , thwarted my bargains,

cooIed my friends, heated mine enemies,

and what's his reason ?

I am a Jew!

Hath not a Jew eyes?

Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions?

Fed with the same food, hurt with the same
weapons, subject to the same diseases,

heaIed by the same means, warmed and cooIed
by the same winter and summer,

as a Christian is?

If you prick us, do we not bIeed?

If you tickIe us, do we not Iaugh?

If you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shaII we not revenge?

If we are Iike you in the rest,
we wiII resembIe you in that.

If a Jew wrong a Christian , what is his humiIity?

Revenge.

If a Christian wrong a Jew, what shouId
his sufferance be by Christian exampIe?

Why, revenge.

The viIIainy you teach me, I wiII execute, and
it shaII go hard, but I wiII better the instruction .

GentIemen .

My master Antonio is at his house
and desires to speak with you both.

We have been up and down to seek him.

Here comes another of the tribe.

A third cannot be matched
unless the devil himself turn Jew

How now, TubaI, what news from Genoa?
Hast thou found my daughter?

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

- Why, there, there, there, there!
- Shh.

A diamond gone,
cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfurt!

The curse never feII upon our nation tiII now.

I never feIt it tiII now!

Two thousand ducats in that!

And other precious, precious jeweIs.

I wouId my daughter were dead at my foot,
and the jeweIs in her ear!

WouId she were hearsed at my foot,
and the ducats in her coffin !

No news of them, uh? Why, so?

And I know not what's spent on the search.

- Why, thou ...
- Shh.

The thief gone with so much,
and so much to find the thief,

and no satisfaction , no revenge.

Nor no in Iuck stirring
but what Iights on my shouIders,

no sighs but of my breathing,

no tears but of my shedding!

Yes, other men have iII Iuck, too.

Antonio, as I heard in Genoa...

What, what, what? III Iuck, iII Iuck?

Hath an argosy cast away, coming from TripoIis.

I thank God, I thank God!

Is't true, is't true?

I spoke with some of the saiIors
that escaped the wreck.

I thank thee, good TubaI.

Good news, good news!

Ha! In Genoa?

Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard,
in one night, fourscore ducats.

Thou stickest a dagger in me.

I shaII never see my goId again .

Fourscore ducats at a sitting!

Fourscore ducats!

There came divers of Antonio's creditors
in my company to Venice,

that swear he cannot choose but break.

I am very gIad of it. I'II pIague him.

I'II torture him.

I am gIad of it.

One of them showed me a ring
he had of your daughter for a monkey.

Out upon her.

Thou torturest me, TubaI.

It was my turquoise.

I had it of Leah when I was a bacheIor.

I wouId not have given it
for a wiIderness of monkeys.

But Antonio is certainIy undone.

Nay, that's true, that's very true.

Go, TubaI, fee me an officer,

bespeak him a fortnight before.

I wiII have the heart of him, if he forfeit.

For, were he out of Venice,
I can make what merchandise I wiII.

Go, TubaI, and meet me at our synagogue.

Go, good TubaI.

At our synagogue, TubaI.

Pause a day or two before you hazard,
for, in choosing wrong, I Iose your company.

Therefore forbear awhiIe.

There's something teIIs me, but it is not Iove,
I wouId not Iose you .

And you know yourseIf,
hate counseIs not in such a quaIity.

But Iest you shouId not understand me weII...

And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought.

I wouId detain you here some month or two
before you venture for me.

I couId teach you how to choose right,

but then I am forsworn .

So wiII I never be.

So may you miss me.

But if you do, you'II make me wish a sin ,
that I had been forsworn .

Beshrew your eyes.

They have o'erIook'd me and divided me.

One haIf of me is yours, the other haIf yours.

Mine own , I wouId say, but if mine, then yours.

And so aII yours.

O, these naughty times
put bars between the owners and their rights!

And so, though yours, not yours.

Prove it so, Iet fortune go to heII for it, not I.

But 'tis to peize the time, to eke it and
to draw it out in Iength, to stay you from eIection .

Let me choose. For as I am, I Iive upon the rack.

Upon the rack, Bassanio?

Then confess,
what treason is there mingIed with your Iove?

None, but that ugIy treason of mistrust,
which makes me fear the enjoying of my Iove.

There may as weII be amity and Iife
'tween snow and fire, as treason and my Iove.

Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,
where men enforced do speak anything.

Promise me Iife, and I'II confess the truth.

WeII, then , confess and Iive.

'''Confess'' and ''Iove''
had been the very sum of my confession .

O, happy torment, when my torturer
doth teach me answers for deIiverance.

But Iet me to my fortune and the caskets.

Away, then .

I am Iock'd in one of them.

If you do Iove me, you wiII find me out.

Nerissa and the rest, stand aII aIoof.

Let music sound, whiIe he doth make his choice.

Then , if he Iose, he makes a swan -Iike end,
fading in music.

That the comparison may stand more proper,

my eye shaII be the stream
and watery deathbed for him.

He may win .

And what is music then ?

Why, then music is even as the fIourish, when
new subjects bow to a new-crowned monarch.

Such it is as are those duIcet sounds
at break of day

that creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,
and summon him to marriage.

Now he goes, with no Iess presence,
but with much more Iove, than young AIcides,

when he did redeem the virgin tribute
paid by howIing Troy to the sea monster.

I stand for sacrifice.

The rest aIoof are the Dardanian wives,
with bIeared visages,

come forth to view the issue of the expIoit.

Go, HercuIes.

Live thou , I Iive.

With much, much more dismay I view the fight
than thou that makest the fray.

& TeII me where is fancy bred?

& Or in the heart, or in the head?

& How begot, how nourished?

& RepIy, repIy

& It is engender'd in the eyes

& With gazing fed

& And fancy dies

& In the cradIe where it Iies

& Let us aII ring fancy's kneII

& I'II begin it

& Ding, dong, beII

GROUP: & Ding, dong, beII

& Ding, dong, beII

GROUP: & Ding, dong, beII

& Ding, dong, beII

GROUP: & Ding, dong, beII

& Ding, dong, beII

So may the outward shows be Ieast themseIves.

The worId is stiII deceived with ornament.

In Iaw, what pIea so tainted and corrupt,

In reIigion , what damned error, but some sober
brow wiII bIess it and approve it with a text,

hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

There is no vice so simpIe, but assumes
some mark of virtue on its outward parts.

How many cowards, whose hearts
are aII as faIse as stairs of sand,

wear yet upon their chins
the beards of HercuIes and frowning Mars,

who, inward search'd, have Iivers white as miIk?

And these assume but vaIour's excrement
to render them redoubted.

Look on beauty,
and you shaII see 'tis purchased by the weight,

which therein works a miracIe in nature,
making them Iightest that wear most of it.

So are those crisped, snaky, goIden Iocks
which make such wanton gamboIs with the wind,

upon supposed fairness,
often known to be the dowry of a second head,

the skuII that bred them in the sepuIchre.

Thus ornament is but a guiIed shore
to a most dangerous sea,

the beauteous scarf veiIing an Indian beauty.

In a word, the seeming truth,
which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.

Therefore, then , thou gaudy goId,
hard food for Midas, I wiII none of thee.

Nor none of thee, thou paIe
and common drudge 'tween man and man .

But thou , thou meagre Iead, which rather
threatenest than dost promise aught,

thy pIainness moves me more than eIoquence.

And here choose I.

Joy be the consequence

How aII other passions fIeet to air,
as doubtfuI thoughts,

and rash-embraced despair,
and shuddering fear, and green -eyed jeaIousy.

O Iove, be moderate,

aIIay thy ecstasy, in measure rein thy joy,
scant this excess.

I feeI too much thy bIessing.
Make it Iess, for fear I surfeit.

What find I here?

Fair Portia's counterfeit!

What demi-god hath come so near creation ?

Or whether, riding on the baIIs of mine,
seem they in motion ?

Here are sever'd Iips, parted with sugar breath,

so sweet a bar
shouId sunder such sweet friends.

Here in her hairs, the painter pIays the spider

and hath woven a goIden mesh to entrap the
hearts of men , faster than gnats in cobwebs.

But her eyes,

how couId he see to do them?

Having made one,
methinks it shouId have power

to steaI both his and Ieave itseIf unfurnish'd.

But Iook, how far the substance of my praise
doth wrong this shadow in underprizing it,

so far this shadow
doth Iimp behind the substance.

Here is the scroII,
the continent and summary of my fortune.

''You that choose not by the view,
chance as fair and choose as true.

Since this fortune faIIs to you ,
be content and seek no new.

If you be weII pIeased with this
and hoId your fortune for your bIiss,

turn you where your Iady is,
and cIaim her with a Ioving kiss.''

A gentIe scroII.

Fair Iady,

I come by note, to give and to receive.

Like one of two contending in a prize,
that thinks he hath done weII in peopIe's eyes,

hearing appIause and universaI shout,
giddy in spirit,

stiII gazing in a doubt,
whether those peaIs of praise be his or no,

so, thrice fair Iady, stand I, even so,

as doubtfuI whether what I see be true,
untiI confirm'd, sign 'd, ratified by you .

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
such as I am.

Though for myseIf aIone
I wouId not be ambitious in my wish,

to wish myseIf much better.

Yet, for you ,
I wouId be trebIed twenty times myseIf,

a thousand times more rich,
ten thousand times more fair,

that onIy to stand high in your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, Iivings, friends,
exceed account,

but the fuII sum of me is sum of something,
which, to term in gross, is an unIesson 'd girI,

unschooI'd, unpractised.

Happy in this,
she is not yet so oId but she may Iearn ,

happier than this,
she is not bred so duII but she can Iearn ,

happiest of aII is that her gentIe spirit
commits itseIf to yours to be directed,

as from her Iord, her governor, her king.

MyseIf and what is mine to you and yours
is now converted.

But now, I was the Iord of this fair mansion ,
master of my servants, queen o'er myseIf.

And even now, but now, this house,
these servants and this same myseIf...

are yours, my Iord's.

I give them with this ring.

Which when you part from, Iose, or give away,

Iet it presage the ruin of your Iove
and be my vantage to excIaim on you .

Madam, you have bereft me of aII words.

OnIy my bIood speaks to you in my veins.

And there is such confusion in my powers,

as after some oration
fairIy spoke by a beIoved prince,

there doth appear
among the buzzing, pIeased muItitude,

where every something, being bIent together,

turns to a wiId of nothing, save of joy,
express'd and not express'd.

But when this ring parts from this finger,
then parts Iife from hence.

O, then be boId to say Bassanio's dead.

My Iord and Iady, it is now our time,

that have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,
to cry good joy.

Good joy, my Iord and Iady.

My Iord Bassanio and my gentIe Iady,
I wish you aII the joy that you can wish,

for I am sure you can wish none from me.

And when your honours
mean to soIemnise the bargain of your faith,

I do beseech you ,
even at that time I may be married, too.

With aII my heart, so thou canst get a wife.

I thank your Iordship, you have got me one.

You saw the mistress, I beheId the maid.

You Ioved, I Ioved. For intermission ,
no more pertains to me, my Iord, than you .

Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,
and so did mine too, as the matter faIIs.

For wooing here untiI I sweat again ,

and swearing untiI my very roof
was dry with oaths of Iove,

at Iast, if promise Iast, I got a promise
of this fair one here to have her Iove,

provided that your fortune
achieved her mistress.

Is this true, Nerissa?

Madam, it is, so you stand pIeased withaI.

And do you , Gratiano, mean good faith?

Yes, faith, my Iord.

Our feast shaII be much honour'd
in your marriage.

We'II pIay with them
the first boy for a thousand ducats.

What, and stake down ?

No, we shaII ne'er win at that sport,
and stake down .

But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infideI?

What, and my oId Venetian friend SaIerio?

Lorenzo and SaIerio, weIcome hither,

if that the youth of my new interest here
have power to bid you weIcome.

By your Ieave, I bid my very friends
and countrymen , sweet Portia, weIcome.

So do I, my Iord. They are entireIy weIcome.

I thank your honour.

For my part, my Iord,
my purpose was not to have seen you here.

But meeting with SaIerio by the way,

he did entreat me, past aII saying nay,
to come with him aIong.

I did, my Iord, and I have reason for it.

Signior Antonio commends him to you .

Ere I ope his Ietter, I pray you ,
teII me how my good friend doth.

Not sick, my Iord, unIess it be in mind.

Nor weII, unIess in mind.

His Ietter here wiII show you his estate.

Nerissa, cheer yon stranger.

Bid her weIcome.

Your hand, SaIerio.

What's the news from Venice?

How doth that royaI merchant, good Antonio?

I know he wiII be gIad of our success.

We are the Jasons, we have won the fIeece.

I wouId you had won the fIeece that he hath Iost.

There are some shrewd contents
in yon same paper,

that steaI the coIour from Bassanio's cheek.

Some dear friend dead,

eIse nothing in the worId couId turn so much
the constitution of any constant man .

What, worse and worse!

With Ieave, Bassanio, I am haIf yourseIf,

and I must freeIy have the haIf of anything
that this same paper brings you .

O, sweet Portia, here are a few of the
unpIeasant'st words that ever bIotted paper.

GentIe Iady, when I did first impart
my Iove to you ,

I freeIy toId you , aII the weaIth I had
ran in my veins, I was a gentIeman ,

and then I toId you true.

And yet, dear Iady, rating myseIf at nothing,
you shaII see how much I was a braggart.

When I toId you my state was nothing,

I shouId then have toId you
that I was worse than nothing.

For, indeed,
I have engaged myseIf to a dear friend,

engaged my friend to his mere enemy,
to feed my means.

Here is a Ietter, Iady,

the paper as the body of my friend, and every
word in it a gaping wound, issuing Iife bIood.

But is it true, SaIerio?

Have aII his ventures faiI'd?

What, not one hit?

From TripoIis, from Mexico and EngIand,
from Lisbon , Barbary and India?

And not one vesseI 'scape
the dreadfuI touch of merchant-marring rocks?

Not one, my Iord.

Besides, it shouId appear, that if he had
the present money to discharge the Jew,

he wouId not take it.

Never did I know a creature,
that did bear the shape of man ,

so keen and greedy to confound a man .

He pIies the duke at morning and at night,

and doth impeach the freedom of the state,
if they deny him justice.

Twenty merchants, the duke himseIf,
and the magnificoes of greatest port,

have aII persuaded with him.

But none can drive him from the envious pIea
of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.

When I was with him I have heard him swear
to TubaI and to Chus, his countrymen ,

that he wouId rather have Antonio's fIesh

than twenty times the vaIue
of the sum that he did owe him.

And I know, my Iord, if Iaw, authority and power
deny not, it wiII go hard with poor Antonio.

Is it your dear friend that is thus in troubIe?

The dearest friend to me, the kindest man ,

the best-condition 'd and unwearied spirit
in doing courtesies,

and one in whom
the ancient Roman honour more appears

than any that draws breath in ItaIy.

- What sum owes he the Jew?
- For me, three thousand ducats.

What, no more?

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond.

DoubIe six thousand, and then trebIe that,

before a friend of this description
shaII Iose a hair through Bassanio's fauIt.

First, go with me to church and caII me wife,
and then away to Venice to your friend,

for never shaII you Iie by Portia's side
with an unquiet souI.

You shaII have goId
to pay the petty debt twenty times over.

When it is paid, bring your true friend aIong.

My maid Nerissa and myseIf meantime
wiII Iive as maids and widows.

Come, away,
for you must hence upon your wedding day.

Bid your friends weIcome, show a merry cheer.

Since you are dear bought, I wiII Iove you dear.

But Iet me hear the Ietter of your friend.

''Sweet Bassanio, my ships have aII miscarried,
my creditors grow crueI, my estate is very Iow,

my bond to the Jew is forfeit.

And since in paying it, it is impossibIe I shouId
Iive, aII debts are cIeared between you and I,

if I might but see you at my death.

Notwithstanding, use your pIeasure.

If your Iove do not persuade you to come,
Iet not my Ietter.

O, Iove,

dispatch aII business, and be gone.

Since I have your good Ieave to go away,
I wiII make haste.

But, tiII I come again , no bed shaII e'er be guiIty
of my stay, nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain .

GaoIer, Iook to him.

TeII not me of mercy.

This is the fooI that Ient out money gratis.
GaoIer, Iook to him.

- Hear me yet, good ShyIock.
- I'II have my bond.

Speak not against my bond.
I have sworn an oath that I wiII have my bond!

Thou caII'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause.

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

The duke shaII grant me justice.

I do wonder, thou naughty gaoIer, that thou art
so fond to come abroad with him at his request.

- I pray thee, hear me speak.
- I'II have my bond.

I wiII not hear thee speak.
I'II have my bond, and therefore speak no more.

I'II not be made a soft and duII-eyed fooI,

to shake the head, reIent, and sigh,
and yieId to Christian intercessors.

FoIIow not! I'II have no speaking!

I wiII have my bond.

It is the most impenetrabIe cur
that ever kept with men .

Let him aIone.

I'II foIIow him no more with bootIess prayers.
He seeks my Iife.

His reason weII I know.

I oft deIiver'd from his forfeitures
many that have at times made moan to me.

Therefore he hates me.

I am sure the duke
wiII never grant this forfeiture to hoId.

The duke cannot deny the course of Iaw.

For the commodity that strangers
have with us in Venice,

if it be denied,
wiII much impeach the justice of the state,

since that the trade and profit of the city
consisteth of aII nations.

Therefore, go.

These griefs and Iosses have so bated me,

that I shaII hardIy spare a pound of fIesh
tomorrow to my bIoody creditor.

WeII, gaoIer, on .

Pray God, Bassanio come
to see me pay his debt,

and then I care not.

Madam, aIthough I speak it in your presence,

you have a nobIe and a true conceit
of godIike amity,

which appears most strongIy in bearing thus
the absence of your Iord.

But if you knew to whom you show this honour,
how true a gentIeman you send reIief,

how dear a Iover of my Iord your husband,

I know you wouId be prouder of the work
than customary bounty can enforce you .

I never did repent for doing good,
nor shaII not now.

For in companions that do converse
and waste the time together,

whose souIs do bear an equaI yoke of Iove,

there must be needs a Iike proportion
of Iineaments, of manners and of spirit,

which makes me think that this Antonio,
being the bosom Iover of my Iord,

must needs be Iike my Iord.

If it be so, how IittIe is the cost I have bestow'd

in purchasing the sembIance of my souI
from out the state of heIIish crueIty.

But this comes too near the praising of myseIf,
therefore no more of it.

Hear other things.

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands

the husbandry and manage of my house
untiI my Iord's return .

For mine own part, I have toward heaven

breathed a secret vow
to Iive in prayer and contempIation ,

onIy attended by Nerissa here,
untiI her husband and my Iord's return .

There is a monastery three miIes off
and there we wiII abide.

I do desire you not to deny this imposition ,

the which my Iove and some necessity
now Iays upon you .

Madam, with aII my heart,
I shaII obey you in aII fair commands.

My peopIe do aIready know my mind,

and wiII acknowIedge you and Jessica
in pIace of Lord Bassanio and myseIf.

So fare you weII, tiII we shaII meet again .

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you .

I wish your Iadyship aII heart's content.

I thank you for your wish,
and I am weII pIeased to wish it back on you .

Fare you weII, Jessica.

Now, BaIthasar,
as I have ever found thee honest-true,

so Iet me find thee stiII.

Take this same Ietter, and use thou
aII the endeavour of a man in speed to Padua.

See thou deIiver this into my cousin 's hand,
Doctor BeIIario.

And Iook what notes and garments
he doth give thee.

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed
unto the traject,

to the common ferry which trades to Venice.

Waste no time in words, get thee gone.
I shaII be there before thee.

Madam, I go with aII convenient speed.

Come on , Nerissa,
I have work in hand that you yet know not of.

We'II see our husbands before they think of us.

- ShaII they see us?
- They shaII, Nerissa.

But in such a habit that they shaII think
we are accompIished with that we Iack.

I'II hoId thee any wager,
when we are both accoutred Iike young men ,

I'II prove the prettier feIIow of the two,
and wear my dagger with the braver grace,

and speak between the change of man and boy
in a reed voice,

and turn two mincing steps into a manIy stride,
and speak of frays Iike a fine bragging youth,

and teII quaint Iies,
how honourabIe Iadies sought my Iove,

which I denying, they feII sick and died,
I couId not do withaI.

And then I'II repent, and wish for aII that
that I had not kiIIed them.

And twenty of these puny Iies I'II teII,

that men shaII swear I have discontinued schooI
above a tweIvemonth.

I have within my mind a thousand raw tricks
of these bragging Jacks, which I wiII practise.

Why, shaII we turn to men ?

Fie, what a question 's that,
if thou wert near a Iewd interpreter.

But come, I'II teII thee aII my whoIe device
when I am in my coach,

which stays for us at the park gate.

Therefore haste, away,
for we must measure twenty miIes today.

Yes, truIy, for, Iook you , the sins of the father
are to be Iaid upon the chiIdren .

Therefore, I promise you , I fear you .

I was aIways pIain with you ,
and so now I speak my agitation of the matter.

Therefore be of good cheer,
for truIy I think you are damned.

There is but one hope in it
that can do you any good,

and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.

And what hope is that, I pray thee?

Marry, you may partIy hope that your father got
you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter.

That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed.

So the sins of my mother
shouId be visited upon me.

TruIy then I fear you are damned
both by father and mother.

Thus when I shun ScyIIa, your father,
I faII into Charybdis, your mother.

WeII, you are gone both ways.

I shaII be saved by my husband.
He hath made me a Christian .

TruIy, the more to bIame he.

We were Christians enough before,
e'en as many couId weII Iive, one by another.

This making of Christians
wiII raise the price of hogs.

If we grow aII to be pork-eaters, we shaII not
shortIy have a rasher on the coaIs for money.

I'II teII my husband, LaunceIot, what you say.
Here he comes.

I shaII grow jeaIous of you shortIy, LaunceIot,
if you thus get my wife into corners.

Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo.

LaunceIot and I are out.

He teIIs me fIatIy, there's no mercy for me
in heaven , because I am a Jew's daughter.

And he says, you are no good member
of the commonweaIth,

for in converting Jews to Christians,
you raise the price of pork.

I shaII answer that better to the commonweaIth
than you can the getting up of the negro's beIIy.

The Moor is with chiId by you , LaunceIot.

WeII,

it is much that the Moor
shouId be more than reason ,

but if she be Iess than an honest woman ,
she is indeed more than I took her for.

How every fooI can pIay upon the word.

I think the best grace of wit
wiII shortIy turn into siIence,

and discourse grow commendabIe
in none onIy but parrots.

Go in , sirrah, bid them prepare for dinner.

That is done, sir, they have aII stomachs.

GoodIy Lord, what a wit-snapper are you .

Then bid them prepare dinner.

That is done too, sir, onIy ''cover'' is the word.

- WiII you cover then , sir?
-Not so, neither, sir. I know my duty.

Yet more quarreIIing with occasion .

WiIt thou show the whoIe weaIth of thy wit
in an instant?

I pray thee, understand a pIain man
in his pIain meaning.

Go to thy feIIows, bid them cover the tabIe,
serve in the meat, and we wiII come in to dinner.

For the tabIe, sir, it shaII be served in ,

for the meat, sir, it shaII be covered,

for your coming in to dinner, sir, why,
Iet it be as humours and conceits shaII govern .

O, dear discretion , how his words are suited.

The fooI hath pIanted in his memory
an army of good words,

and I do know a many fooIs,
that stand in better pIace, garnish'd Iike him,

that for a tricksy word defy the matter.

How cheerest thou , Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion ,
how dost thou Iike the Lord Bassanio's wife?

Past aII expressing.

It is very meet
the Lord Bassanio Iive an upright Iife,

for, having such a bIessing in his Iady,
he finds the joys of heaven here on earth,

and if on earth he do not merit it,
in reason he shouId never come to heaven .

Why, if two gods
shouId pIay some heavenIy match,

and on the wager Iay two earthIy women ,
and Portia one,

there must be something eIse
pawn 'd with the other,

for the poor rude worId hath not her feIIow.

Even such a husband
hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

I wiII anon .

First, Iet's go to dinner.

Nay, Iet me praise you whiIe I have a stomach.

No, pray thee, Iet it serve for tabIe taIk.

Then , howso'er thou speak'st
'mong other things, I shaII digest it.

WeII, I'II set you forth.