THE MERCHANT OF ·
VENICE

ACT I

SCENE I.-Venice.

A Street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.

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 '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.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That court'sy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Salan. 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.

Salar.
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 bechanc'd 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.
Salar. Why, then you are in love.

Ant.

Fie, fie!

Salar. Not in love neither? Then let us say you

are 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 fram'd 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 show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.
Bassanio, your most noble

Salan. Here comes

kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo.

Fare ye well :

We leave you now with better company.

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

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 the occasion to depart.
Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.

Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh?

say, when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.

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.
Bass. I will not fail you.

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 chang'd.

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,
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,
For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo.

Fare ye well awhile:

I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinnertime.

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years

moe,

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.

Exeunt GRATIANO and Lorenzo.

Ant. Is that any thing now?

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 promis'd to tell me of?
Bass. '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 abridg'd
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.

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd,

My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

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,
To find the other forth, and by adventuring 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,