MERCHANT OF VENICE. ACT. I. SCENE I.-Venice.—A Street. Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; That curt'sy to them, do them reverence, Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks? Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought sad? But, tell not me; I know, Antonio. Is sad to think upon his merchandize. Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, No to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year: Ant. Fie, fie! Salan. Not in love neither? Then let's say, you are sad, Because you are not merry Janus, and 'twere as easy and say you are merry, Now, by two-headed Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper; And other of such vinegar aspect, That they'll not shew their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO. Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your nost noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo: fare you well; If worthier friends had not prevented me. Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Yon grow exceeding strange; Must it be so ? Antonio, We two will leave you: but, at dinner time, Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio; Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one, Gra. Let me play the Fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice For saying nothing; who, 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: Come, good Lorenzo: fare ye well, a while; Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinnertime: I must be one of these same dumb wise men, Gra. Well, keep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only commend able In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that any thing now? Bass. Gratianio speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search. Ant. Well; tell me now what lady is this same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promised to tell me of? Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate, By something shewing 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 ine gaged: to you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money, and in love; And from your love I have a warranty To unburthen all my plots, and purposes, How to get clear of all the debts I owe. Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; My purse, my person, my extremest means Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch, I owe you much; and like a wilful youth, Which you did shoot the first; I do not doubt, Or bring your latter hazard back again, Ant. 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: That in your knowledge may by me be done, Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth: Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea; Nor have I money, nor commodity To raise a present sum: therefore go forth, Where money is; and I no question make, [Exeunt. SCENE II.-Belmont.-A Room in PORTIA's House. Enter PORTIA and NERISSA. Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good for tunes are: and, yet, for aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced. Ner. They would be better, if well followed. Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. It is a good di vine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be * Ready. |