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The Merchant of Venice, Act I

by William Shakespeare

Act I, Scene 1

                        [Venice.  A street.  ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO enter.]

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

            It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

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

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

            I am to learn;

            And such a want‑wit sadness makes of me,

            That I have much ado to know myself.

 

                                    SALARINO

            Your mind is tossing on the ocean;

            There, where your argosies with portly sail,‑

            Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,

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

            Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

            That curtsey to them, do them reverence,

            As they fly by them with their woven wings.

 

                                    SOLANIO

            Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

            The better part of my affections would

            Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

            Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;

            Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;

            And every object that might make me fear

            Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

            Would make me sad.

 

                                    SALARINO

                                My wind, cooling my broth

            Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

            What harm a wind too great might do at sea.

            I should not see the sandy hour‑glass run,

            But I should think of shallows and of flats;

            And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,

            Vailing her high‑top lower than her ribs,

            To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,

            And see the holy edifice of stone,

            And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

            Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,

            Would scatter all her spices on the stream;

            Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;

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

            And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought

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

            That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?

            But tell not me; I know Antonio

            Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

            My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

            Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

            Upon the fortune of this present year:

            Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

 

                                    SALARINO

            Why, then you are in love.

 

                                    ANTONIO

                                                    Fie, fie!

 

                                    SALARINO

            Not in love neither? Then let's say you're sad,

            Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy

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

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

            Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:

            Some that will evermore through their eyes,

            And laugh, like parrots, at a bag‑piper;

            And other of such vinegar aspect,

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

            Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

 

                                    SOLANIO

            Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

            Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

            We leave you now with better company.

 

                                    SALARINO

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

            If worthier friends had not prevented me.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Your worth is very dear in my regard.

            I take it, your own business calls on you,

            And you embrace th'occasion to depart.

 

                        [BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO enter.]

 

                                    SALARINO

            Good morrow, my good lords.

 

                                    BASSANIO

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

            You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

 

                                    SALARINO

            We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

 

                        [SALARINO and SOLANIO exit.]

 

                                    LORENZO

            My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

            We two will leave you: but, at dinner‑time,

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

 

                                    BASSANIO

            I will not fail you.

 

                                    GRATIANO

            You look not well, Signior Antonio;

            You have too much respect upon the world:

            They lose it that do buy it with much care:

            Believe me, you are marvellously changed.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

            A stage, where every man must play a part,

            And mine a sad one.

 

                                    GRATIANO

                                             Let me play the fool:

            With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;

            And let my liver rather heat with wine

            Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

            Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

            Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

            Sleep when he wakes?and creep into the jaundice

            By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,‑

            I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,‑

            There are a sort of men, whose visages

            Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;

            And do a wilful stillness entertain,

            With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion

            Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;

            As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,

            And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"

            O my Antonio, I do know of these,

            That therefore only are reputed wise

            For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

            If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,

            Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

            I'll tell thee more of this another time:

            But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

            this fool‑gudgeon, this opinion.‑

            Come, good Lorenzo.‑ Fare ye well awhile:

            I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

 

                                    LORENZO

            Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner‑time:

            I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

            For Gratiano never lets me speak.

 

                                    GRATIANO

            Well, keep me company but two years moe,

            Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

 

                                    GRATIANO

            Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable

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

 

                        [GRATIANO and LORENZO exit.]

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Is that any thing now?

 

                                    BASSANIO

            Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any

            man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat

            hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you

            find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the

            search.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Well; tell me now, what lady is the same

            To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

            That you to‑day promised to tell me of?

 

                                    BASSANIO

            'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

            How much I have disabled mine estate,

            By something showing a more swelling port

            Than my faint means would grant continuance:

            Nor do I now make moan to be abridged

            From such a noble rate; but my chief care

            Is, to come fairly off from the great debts,

            Wherein my time, something too prodigal,

            Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,

            I owe the most, in money and in love;

            And from your love I have a warranty

            To unburden all my plots and purposes

            How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

            And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

            Within the eye of honour, be assured

            My purse, my person, my extremest means,

            Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            In my school‑days, when I had lost one shaft,

            I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight

            The selfsame way with more advised watch,

            To find the other forth; and by advent'ring both,

            I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,

            Because what follows is pure innocence.

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

            That which I owe is lost: but if you please

            To shoot another arrow that self way

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

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

            Or bring your latter hazard back again,

            And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            You know me well; and herein spend but time

            To wind about my love with circumstance;

            And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

            In making question of my uttermost,

            Than if you had made waste of all I have:

            Then do but say to me what I should do,

            That in your knowledge may by me be done,

            And I am press'd unto it: therefore, speak.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            In Belmont is a lady richly left;

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

            Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes

            I did receive fair speechless messages:

            Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued

            To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:

            Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;

            For the four winds blow in from every coast

            Renowned suitors: and her sunny locks

            Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

            Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,

            And many Jasons come in quest of her.

            O my Antonio, had I but the means

            To hold a rival place with one of them,

            I have a mind presages me such thrift,

            That I should questionless be fortunate!

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Thou know'st that all 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 shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,

            To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

            Go, presently inquire, and so will I,

            Where money is; and I no question make,

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

 

                        [ANTONIO and BASSANIO exit.]

Act I, Scene 2

                      [Belmont.  A room in Portia's house.  PORTIA and NERISSA enter.]

 

                                    PORTIA

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

 

                                    NERISSA

            You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same

            abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet, for aught I

            see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they

            that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness,

            therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes

            sooner by white hairs; but competency lives longer.

 

                                    PORTIA

            Good sentences, and well pronounced.

 

                                    NERISSA

            They would be better, if well follow'd.

 

                                    PORTIA

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

            chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes'

            palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own

            instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be

            done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.

            The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper

            leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth,

            to skip o'er the meshes of good‑counsel the cripple. But

            this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a

            husband:‑ O me, the word "choose"! I may neither choose who

            I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a

            living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father.‑ Is it

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

 

                                    NERISSA

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

            have good inspirations: therefore, the lottery, that he hath

            devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead,‑

            whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you,‑ will, no

            doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, but one who shall

            rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection

            towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

 

                                    PORTIA

            I pray thee, over‑name them; and as thou namest them, I will

            describe them; and, according to my description, level at my

            affection.

 

                                    NERISSA

            First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

 

                                    PORTIA

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

            his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own

            good parts, that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard

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

 

                                    NERISSA

            Then there is the County Palatine.

 

                                    PORTIA

            He doth nothing but frown; as who should say, "An you will

            not have me, choose:" he hears merry tales, and smiles not:

            I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows

            old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had

            rather be married to a Death's‑head with a bone in his mouth

            than to either of these:‑ God defend me from these two!

 

                                    NERISSA

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

 

                                    PORTIA

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

            truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but, he!‑ why, he

            hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; a better bad

            habit of frowning than the Count Palatine: he is every man

            in no man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a‑capering;

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

            should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I

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

            never requite him.

 

                                    NERISSA

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

 

                                    PORTIA

            You know I say nothing to him: for he understands not me,

            nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian; and

            you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor

            pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture;

            but, alas, who can converse with a dumb‑show? How oddly he

            is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round

            hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour

            every where.

 

                                    NERISSA

            What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

 

                                    PORTIA

            That he hath a neighbourly charity in him; for he borrow'd a

            box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him

            again when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his

            surety, and seal'd under for another.           

 

                                    NERISSA

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

 

                                    PORTIA

            Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and most

            vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best,

            he is a little worse than a man; and when he is worst, he is

            little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever

            fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

 

                                    NERISSA

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

            you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you

            should refuse to accept him.

 

                                    PORTIA

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

            glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for, if the

            devil be within, and that temptation without, I know he will

            choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be

            married to a sponge.

 

                                    NERISSA

            You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords: they

            have acquainted me with their determinations; which is,

            indeed, to return to their home, and to trouble you with no

            more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than

            your father's imposition, depending on the caskets.

 

                                    PORTIA

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

            Diana, unless I be obtain'd by the manner of my father's

            will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for

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

            and I pray God grant them a fair departure. 

 

                                    NERISSA

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

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

            company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

 

                                    PORTIA

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

 

                                    NERISSA

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

            look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

 

                                    PORTIA

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

 

                        [A SERVANT enters.]

 

            How now! what news?

 

                                    SERVANT

            The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave:

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

            Morocco; who brings word, the prince his master will be here

            tonight.

 

                                    PORTIA

            If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as I

            can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his

            approach: if he have the condition of a saint and the

            complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than

            wive me. Come, Nerissa.‑ Sirrah, go before.‑  Whiles we shut

            the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.    

 

                        [PORTIA, NERISSA, and the SERVANT exit.]

Act I, Scene 3

                        [Venice.  A public place.  BASSANIO with SHYLOCK enter.]

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Three thousand ducats,‑ well.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            Ay, sir, for three months.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            For three months,‑ well.

 

                                    BASSANIO

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

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Antonio shall become bound,‑ well.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I know your answer?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            Your answer to that.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Antonio is a good man.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Ho, no, no, no, no;‑ my meaning, in saying he is a good man

            is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his

            means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to

            Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover,

            upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for

            England,‑  and other ventures he hath, squander'd abroad.

            But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land‑

            rats and water‑rats, water‑thieves and land‑thieves, I mean

            pirates; and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and

            rocks. The man is, notwithstanding,  sufficient:‑ three

            thousand ducats:‑ I think I may take his bond.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            Be assured you may.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

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

            bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

 

                                    BASSANIO

            If it please you to dine with us.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

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

            prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy

            with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and

            so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you,

            nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto?‑ Who is he comes here?

 

                        [ANTONIO enters.]

 

                                    BASSANIO

            This is Signior Antonio.

 

                                    SHYLOCK [aside]

            How like a fawning publican he looks!

            I hate him for he is a Christian!

            But more, for that, in low simplicity,

            He lends out money gratis, and brings down

            The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

            If I can catch him once upon the hip,

            I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

            He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,

            Even there where merchants most do congregate,

            On me, my bargains, and my well‑won thrift,

            Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,

            If I forgive him!

 

                                    BASSANIO

                                         Shylock, do you hear?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            I am debating of my present store;

            And, by the near guess of my memory,

            I cannot instantly raise up the gross

            Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

            Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

            Will furnish me. But soft! how many months

            Do you desire?‑ [to Antonio]  Rest you fair, good signior;

            Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow

            By taking nor by giving of excess,

            Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,

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

            How much ye would?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

                                                  Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            And for three months.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            I had forgot,‑ three months, you told me so.

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

            Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow

            Upon advantage.

 

                                    ANTONIO

                                         I do never use it.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep,‑

            This Jacob from our holy Abram was

            (As his wise mother wrought in his behalf)

            The third possessor; ay, he was the third,‑

 

                                    ANTONIO

            And what of him? did he take interest?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

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

            Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

            When Laban and himself were compromised

            That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied

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

            In th'end of autumn turned to the rams;

            And when the work of generation was

            Between these woolly breeders in the act,

            The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,

            And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

            He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

            Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time

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

            This was a way to thrive, and he was bless'd:

            And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

 

                                    ANTONIO

            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 gold and silver ewes and rams?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            I cannot tell: I make it breed as fast:‑

            But note me, signior.

 

                                    ANTONIO

                                                Mark you this, Bassanio,

            The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

            An evil soul, producing holy witness,

            Is like a villain with a smiling cheek;

            A goodly apple rotten at the heart:

            O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Three thousand ducats,‑ 'tis a good round sum.

            Three months from twelve,‑ then, let me see, the rate‑

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you?

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,

            In the Rialto, you have rated me

            About my moneys and my usances:

            Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;

            For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:

            You call me misbeliever, cut‑throat dog,

            And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,

            And all for use of that which is mine own.

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

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

            "Shylock, we would have moneys:"‑you say so;

            You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,

            And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

            Over your threshold: moneys is your suit.

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

            "Hath a dog money? is it possible

            A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or

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

            With bated breath and whispering humbleness,

            Say this,‑

            "Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

            You spurn'd me such a day; another time

            You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies

            I'll lend you thus much moneys?"

 

                                    ANTONIO

            I am as like to call thee so again,

            To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.

            If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not

            As to thy friends‑for when did friendship take

            A breed for barren metal of his friend?‑

            But lend it rather to thine enemy;

            Who if he break, thou mayst with better face

            Exact the penalty.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

                                           Why, look you, how you storm!

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

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

            Supply your present wants, and take no doit

            Of usance for my moneys,

            And you'll not hear me: this is kind I offer.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            This were kindness.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

                                             This kindness will I show:‑

            Go with me to a notary, seal me there

            Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

            If you repay me not on such a day,

            In such a place, such sum or sums as are

            Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit

            Be nominated for an equal pound

            Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

            In what part of your body pleaseth me.

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

            And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

 

                                    BASSANIO

            You shall not seal to such a bond for me:

            I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

 

                                    ANTONIO

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

            Within these two months, that's a month before

            This bond expires, I do expect return

            Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            O father Abram, what these Christians are,

            Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect

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

            If he should break his day, what should I gain

            By the exaction of the forfeiture?

            A pound of man's flesh taken from a man

            Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

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

            To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:

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

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

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

 

                                    SHYLOCK

            Then meet me forthwith at the notary's,‑

            Give him direction for this merry bond;

            And I will go and purse the ducats straight;

            See to my house, left in the fearful guard

            Of an unthrifty knave; and presently

            I will be with you.

 

                                    ANTONIO

                                            Hie thee, gentle Jew.

 

                        [SHYLOCK exits.]

 

            The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

 

                                    BASSANIO

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

 

                                    ANTONIO

            Come on: in this there can be no dismay;

            My ships come home a month before the day.

 

                        [ANTONIO and BASSANIO exit.]

Go to Act II

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