THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

Act first.

Scene First.- VENICE. A STREET.

[Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Solanio.

Ant.

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 't is 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
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curt'sy 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 into maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make 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 her wealthy Andrew docked in sand,
Veiling her high top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial.

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.

Ant.

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.

Ant.

Fie, fie'

Salarino.

Not in love neither? Then let us say, you are sad
Because you are not merry. And 't were 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 peep through their eyes,
And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper ;
And others of such vinegar aspect,

That they 'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Solanio.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well;

We leave you now with better company.

Salarino.

I would have stayed till I had made you merry, [Crosses.

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant.

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it your own business calls on you,

And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

[Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano L. 3 Ε.

Salarino.

Good-morrow, my good lords.

Bass.

[To them.

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.

[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio R. I. E

Lor.

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.

I will not fail you.

Bass.

Gra.

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.

Ant.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

Let me play the Fool:

Gra.

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 dressed 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,

For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo: - Fare ye well a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor.

Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner-time:
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra.

Well, keep me company but two years more,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Ant.

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

Gra.

Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.

Is that any thing now ?

[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo R.

Ant.

Bass.

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.

Ant.

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?