The Merchant of Venice
  Dramatis Personae
  Act One Scene 1: Venice. A street.
  Act One Scene 2: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act One Scene 3: Venice. A public place.
  Act Two Scene1: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act Two Scene 2: Venice. A street
  Act Two Scene 3: Venice A room in SHYLOCK'S house.
  Act Two Scene 4: Venice. A street.
  Act Two Scene 5: Venice. Before SHYLOCK'S house.
  Act Two Scene 6: Venice Before SHYLOCK'S house
  Act Two Scene 7: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act Two Scene 8: Venice. A street.
  Act Two Scene 9: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act Three Scene 1: Venice. A street.
  Act Three Scene 2: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act Three Scene 3: Venice. A street.
  Act Three Scene 4: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Act Three Scene 5: Belmont. A garden.
  Act Four Scene 1: Venice. A court of justice.
  Act Four Scene 2: Venice A street.
  Act Five Scene 1: Belmont. Avenue to PORTIA'S house.
Dramatis Personae
                      suitor to Portia
                      suitor to Portia
                      a merchant of Venice
                      his friend
                      friend to Antonio and Bassanio
                      friend to Antonio and Bassanio
                      friend to Antonio and Bassanio
                      in love with Jessica
                      a rich Jew
                      a Jew, his friend
                      a clown, servant to Shylock
                      father to Launcelot
                      servant to Bassanio
                      servant to Portia
                      servant to Portia
                      a rich heiress
                      her waiting-maid
                      daughter to Shylock
  Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
  Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants


  SCENE I. Venice. A street.
  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;
  Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
  There, where your argosies with portly sail,
  Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
  Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
  That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
  As they fly by them with their woven wings.
  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.
                                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? I know, Antonio
  Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
  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.
  Why, then you are in love.
  Fie, fie!
  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.
                           Fare ye well:
  We leave you now with better company.
  I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
  If worthier friends had not prevented me.
  Your worth is very dear in my regard.
  Good morrow, my good lords.
  Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
  You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
  We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
       Exeunt Salarino and Salanio
  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.
  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.
  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: 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!'
  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.
  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.
  Well, keep me company but two years moe,
  Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
  Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.
  Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
  In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
      Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO
  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.
  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?
  '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.
  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.
  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!
  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.


SCENE II: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
      Enter PORTIA and NERISSA
  By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of
  this great world.
  You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in
  the same abundance as your good fortunes are:
  A good sentence and well pronounced.
  They would be better, if well followed.
  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.
  But this reasoning is not in the fashion to
  choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may
  neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I
  dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed
  by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,
  Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?
  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?
  I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest
  them, I will describe them; and, according to my
  description, level at my affection.
  First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
  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 played false with a smith.
  Then there is the County Palatine.
  He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If 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
  How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?
  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.
  What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron
  of England?
  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 like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?
  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.
  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.
  Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a
  deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket,
   I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
  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.
  If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as
  chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained 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.
  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?
  Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.
  True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish
  eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.
  I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of
  thy praise.
  Enter a Serving-man
  How now! what news?
  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 to-night.
  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.


SCENE III. Venice. A public place.
  Three thousand ducats; well.
  Ay, sir, for three months.
  For three months; well.
  For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.
  Antonio shall become bound; well.
  May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall 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?
  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, squandered 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.
  Be assured you may.
  I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured,
  I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?
  If it please you to dine with us.
  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?
  This is Signior Antonio.
  [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!
  Shylock, do you hear?
  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?
  Rest you fair, good signior;
  Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
  Shylock, albeit 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?
  Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
  And for three months.
  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.
  I do never use it.
  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--
  And what of him? Did he take interest?
  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 the 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 blest:
  And thrift is blessing, if men steal 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 gold and silver ewes and rams?
  I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:
  But note me, signior.
  Mark you this, Bassanio,
  The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
  Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.
  Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--
  Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?
  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'?
  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.
  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.
                              This were kindness.
  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.
  Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond
  And say there is much kindness in the Jew.
  You shall not seal to such a bond for me:
  I'll rather dwell in my necessity.
  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.
  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 favor, I extend this friendship:
  If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
  And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
  Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
  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.
                         Hie thee, gentle Jew.
      Exit Shylock
  The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.
  I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
  Come on: in this there can be no dismay;
  My ships come home a month before the day.

  SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF MOROCCO and his train;
   PORTIA, NERISSA, and others attending
  Mislike me not for my complexion,
  The shadow'd livery 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 icicles,
  And let us make incision for your love,
  To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
  I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
  Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear
  The best-regarded virgins of our clime
  Have loved it too: I would not change this hue,
  Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
  In terms of choice I am not solely led
  By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;
  Besides, the lottery of my destiny
  Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
  But if my father had not scanted me
  And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself
  His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
  Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair
  As any comer I have look'd on yet
  For my affection.
  Even for that I thank you:
  Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets
  To try my fortune. By this scimitar
  That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince
  That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
  I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,
  Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
  Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
  Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
  To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
  If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
  Which is the better man, the greater throw
  May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
  So is Alcides beaten by his page;
  And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
  Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
  And die with grieving.
                        You must take your chance,
  And either not attempt to choose at all
  Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong
  Never to speak to lady afterward
  In way of marriage: therefore be advised.
  Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.
  First, forward to the temple: after dinner
  Your hazard shall be made.
  Good fortune then!
  To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
     Cornets, and exeunt

SCENE II. Venice. A street.
  Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master.
  The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me saying to me
  'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,'
   or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.
   My conscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot;
  take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo;
  do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous
  fiend bids me pack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the
  fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend,
   'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart,
  says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot,
  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; well, my conscience says 'Launcelot,
  budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.
  'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well:'
   to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master,
  who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew,
  I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil
  himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnate; and,
  in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience,
   to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend
  gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are
  at your command; I will run.
      Enter Old GOBBO, with a basket
  Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way
  to master Jew's?
  [Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!
  who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind,
  knows me not: I will try confusions with him.
  Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way
  to master Jew's?
  Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but,
  at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at
  the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn
  down indirectly to the Jew's house.
  By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can
  you tell me whether one Launcelot,
  that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
  Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
  Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you
  of young Master Launcelot?
  No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,
  though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man
  and, God be thanked, well to live.
  Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of
  young Master Launcelot.
  Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.
  But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you,
  talk you of young Master Launcelot?
  Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
  Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master
  Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,
  according to Fates and Destinies and such odd
  sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of
  learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say
  in plain terms, gone to heaven.
  Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my
  age, my very prop.
  Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or
  a prop? Do you know me, father?
  Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
  but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his
  soul, alive or dead?
  Do you not know me, father?
  Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
  Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of
  the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his
  own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
  your son: give me your blessing: truth will come
  to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son
  may, but at the length truth will out.
  Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not
  Launcelot, my boy.
  Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but
  give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy
  that was, your son that is, your child that shall
  I cannot think you are my son.
  I know not what I shall think of that: but I am
  Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your
  wife is my mother.
  Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou
  be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
  Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou
  got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than
  Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.
  It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows
  backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail
  than I have of my face when I last saw him.
  Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy
  master agree? I have brought him a present. How
  'gree you now?
  Father, I am glad you are come: give me
  your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,
  gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I
  will 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 the Jew any longer.
      Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO and other followers
  You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper
  be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See
  these letters delivered; put the liveries to making,
  and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
  Exit a Servant
  To him, father.
  God bless your worship!
  Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?
  Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--
  Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that
  would, sir, as my father shall specify--
  He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--
  Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew,
  and have a desire, as my father shall specify--
  His master and he, saving your worship's reverence,
  are scarce cater-cousins--
  To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having
  done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I
  hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you--
  I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon
  your worship, and my suit is--
  In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as
  your worship shall know by this honest old man; and,
  though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.
  One speak for both. What would you?
  Serve you, sir.
  That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
  I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
  Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
  And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment
  To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
  The follower of so poor a gentleman.
  The old proverb is very well parted between my
  master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of
  God, sir, and he hath enough.
  Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.
  Take leave of thy old master and inquire
  My lodging out. Give him a livery
  More guarded than his fellows': see it done.
  Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have ne'er a tongue in my head.
  Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father,
  come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.
      Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo
  I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:
  These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,
  Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
  My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.
  My best endeavours shall be done herein.
  Where is your master?
  Yonder, sir, he walks.
  Signior Bassanio!
  I have a suit to you.
  You have obtain'd it.
  You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.
  Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;
  Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;
  Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain
  To allay with some cold drops of modesty
  Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior
  I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
  And lose my hopes.
  Signior Bassanio, hear me:
  If I do not put on a sober habit,
  Talk with respect and swear but now and then,
  never trust me more.
  Well, we shall see your bearing.
  Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me
  By what we do to-night.
  No, that were pity:  But fare you well:
  I have some business.
  And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:
  But we will visit you at supper-time.

SCENE III. The same. A room in SHYLOCK'S house.
  I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:
  Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
  Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
  But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee:
  And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
  Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:
  Give him this letter; do it secretly;
  And so farewell.
  Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful
  pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play
  the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But,
  adieu: these foolish drops do something drown my
  manly spirit: adieu.
  Farewell, good Launcelot.
  Exit Launcelot
  Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
  To be ashamed to be my father's child!
  O Lorenzo,
  If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
  Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

SCENE IV. The same. A street.
  Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
  Disguise us at my lodging and return,
  All in an hour.
  We have not made good preparation.
  We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.
  'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,
  And better in my mind not undertook.
  'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours
  To furnish us.
  Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter
  Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
  An it shall please you to break up
  this, it shall seem to signify.
  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 leave, sir.
  Whither goest thou?
  Marry, sir, to bid my old master the
  Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.
  Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica
  I will not fail her; speak it privately.
  Go, gentlemen,
  Exit Launcelot
  Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?
  I am provided of a torch-bearer.
  Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
  And so will I.
  Meet me and Gratiano
  At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
  'Tis good we do so.
  Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
  I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
  How I shall take her from her father's house,
  What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with,
  What page's suit she hath in readiness.
  Come, go with me; peruse this as thou goest:
  Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

SCENE V. The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house.
  Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
  The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--
  What, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise,
  As thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!--
  And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;--
  Why, Jessica, I say!
  Why, Jessica!
  Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
  Your worship was wont to tell me that
  I could do nothing without bidding.
  Enter Jessica
  Call you? what is your will?
  I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:
  There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?
  I am not bid for love; they flatter me:
  But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
  The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,
  Look to my house. I am right loath to go:
  There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
  For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
  I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect
  your reproach.
  So do I his.
  An they have conspired together, I will not say you
  shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not
  for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on
  Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning,
  falling 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 vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,
  Clamber not you up to the casements then,
  Nor thrust your head into the public street
  To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,
  But stop my house's ears, by Jacob's staff, I swear,
  I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
  But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;
  Say I will come.
  I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at
  window, for all this, There will come a Christian
  boy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.
  What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
  His words were 'Farewell mistress;' nothing else.
  The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;
  Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
  More than the wild-cat: Well, Jessica, go in;
  Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:
  Fast bind, fast find;
  A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
  Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
  I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

SCENE VI. The same.
  Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued
  This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo
  Desired us to make stand.
  His hour is almost past.
  And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
  For lovers ever run before the clock.
  O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
  To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont
  To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
  That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
  With that keen appetite that he sits down?
  Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.
     Enter LORENZO
  Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
  Approach; here dwells my father Jew.
  Ho! who's within?
      Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes
  Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
  Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
  Lorenzo, and thy love.
  Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,
  For who love 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 glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
  For I am much ashamed of my exchange.
  Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.
  What, must I hold a candle to my shames?
  I should be obscured.
  So are you, sweet,
  Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
  But come at once;
  For the close night doth play the runaway,
  And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.
  I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
  With some more ducats, and be with you straight.
  Exit above
  Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.
  Beshrew me but I love her heartily;
  Enter JESSICA, below
  What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!
  Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
  Exit with Jessica and Salarino
  Who's there?
  Signior Antonio!
  Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
  'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you.
  No masque to-night: the wind is come about;
  Bassanio presently will go aboard:
  I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
  I am glad on't: I desire no more delight
  Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

SCENE VII. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, 
  with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains
  Go draw aside the curtains and discover
  The several caskets to this noble prince.
  Now make your choice.
  The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,
  'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;'
  The second, silver, which this promise carries,
  'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;'
  This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,
  'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
  How shall I know if I do choose the right?
  The one of them contains my picture, prince:
  If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
  Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;
  I will survey the inscriptions back again.
  What says this leaden casket?
  'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
  Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead?
  This casket threatens. Men that hazard all
  Do it in hope of fair advantages:
  A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
  I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
  What says the silver with her virgin hue?
  'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
  As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,
  And weigh thy value with an even hand:
  As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady:
  I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
  In graces and in qualities of breeding;
  But more than these, in love I do deserve.
  What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?
  Let's see once more this saying graved in gold
  'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
  Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her;
  From the four corners of the earth they come,
  To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:
  The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
  Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now
  For princes to come view fair Portia:
  Never so rich a gem. Deliver me the key:
  Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
  There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,
  Then I am yours.
  He unlocks the golden casket
  O hell! what have we here?
  A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
  There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.
  All that glitters is not gold;
  Often have you heard that told:
  Many a man his life hath sold
  But my outside to behold:
  Gilded timber do worms enfold.
  Had you been as wise as bold,
  Young in limbs, in judgment old,
  Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
  Fare you well; your suit is cold.
  Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
  Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!
  Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart
  To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.
  Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets
  A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
  Let all of his complexion choose me so.

SCENE VIII. Venice. A street.
  Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:
  With him is Gratiano gone along;
  And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
  The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke,
  Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
  He came too late, the ship was under sail:
  But there the duke was given to understand
  That in a gondola were seen together
  Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
  I never heard a passion so confused,
  So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
  As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
  'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
  Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!
  Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!
  A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
  Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter!
  And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,
  Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl;
  She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.'
  Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
  Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
  Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
  Or he shall pay for this.
  Marry, well remember'd.
  I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,
  Who told me, in the narrow seas that part
  The French and English, there miscarried
  A vessel of our country richly fraught:
  I thought upon Antonio when he told me;
  And wish'd in silence that it were not his.
  You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
  Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
  A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
  I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
  Bassanio told him he would make some speed
  Of his return: he answer'd, 'Do not so;
  Slubber 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,
  Let it not enter in your mind of love:
  And even there, his eye being big with tears,
  Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
  And with affection wondrous sensible
  He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.
  I think he only loves the world for him.

SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Enter NERISSA with a Servitor
  Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:
  The Prince of Aragon hath ta'en his oath,
  And comes to his election presently.
      Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARAGON, PORTIA, and their trains
  Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:
  If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
  Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:
  But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
  You must be gone from hence immediately.
  I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:
  First, never to unfold to any one
  Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail
  Of the right casket, never in my life
  To woo a maid in way of marriage: Lastly,
  If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
  Immediately to leave you and be gone.
  To these injunctions every one doth swear
  That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
  And so have I address'd me. Fortune now
  To my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead.
  'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
  You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.
  What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:
  'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
  What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant
  By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
  I will not choose what many men desire,
  Because I will not jump with common spirits.
  Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
  Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
  'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:'
  And well said too; for who shall go about
  To cozen fortune and be honourable
  Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
  To wear an undeserved dignity.
  O, that estates, degrees and offices
  Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour
  Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
  'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
  I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,
  And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
      He opens the silver casket
  Too long a pause for that which you find there.
  What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
  How much unlike art thou to Portia!
  Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
  Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?
  To offend, and judge, are distinct offices
  And of opposed natures.
  What is here?
  Some there be that shadows kiss;
  Such have but a shadow's bliss:
  There be fools alive, I wis,
  Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
  Take what wife you will to bed,
  I will ever be your head:
  So be gone: you are sped.
  Still more fool I shall appear
  By the time I linger here
  With one fool's head I came to woo,
  But I go away with two.
  Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,
  Patiently to bear my wroth.
      Exeunt Aragon and train
  Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
  O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
  They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
  The ancient saying is no heresy,
  Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
      Enter a Servant
  Where is my lady?
  Here: what would my lord?
  Madam, there is alighted at your gate
  A young Venetian, one that comes before
  To signify the approaching of his lord;
  Yet I have not seen
  So likely an ambassador of love:
  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 half afeard
  Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,
  Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.
  Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see
  Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.
  Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

  SCENE I. Venice. A street.
      Enter SALANIO and SALARINO
  Now, what news on the Rialto?
  Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath
  a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas;
  the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very
  dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many
  a tall ship lie buried, as they say.
  Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.
  I would it might prove the end of his losses.
  Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my
  prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
      Enter SHYLOCK
  How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?
  You know, none so well, none so well as you, of my
  daughter's flight.
  That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor
  that made the wings she flew withal.
  She is damned for it.
  That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.
  My own flesh and blood to rebel!
  Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?
  I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.
  There is more difference between thy flesh and hers
  than between jet and ivory; But tell us, do you hear whether
  Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?
  There I have another bad match: a bankrupt,
  a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon
  the Rialto; let him look to his bond: he was wont to
  call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was
  wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him
  look to his bond.
  Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take
  his flesh: what's that good for?
  To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,
  it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
  hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
  mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
  bargains, cooled 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, healed by the same means,
  warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
  a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
  if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
  us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
  revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
  resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,
  what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian
  wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by
  Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you
  teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I
  will better the instruction.
      Enter a Servant
  Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and
  desires to speak with you both.
  We have been up and down to seek him.
      Enter TUBAL
  Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be
  matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.
      Exeunt SALANIO, SALARINO, and Servant
  How now, Tubal! 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! a diamond gone,
  cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse
  never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it
  till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other
  precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter
  were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!
  would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in
  her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know
  not what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon
  loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to
  find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge:
  nor no ill luck stirring but what lights on my
  shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears
  but of my shedding.
  Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I
  heard in Genoa,--
  What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
  Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.
  I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true?
  I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
  I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good news!
  ha, ha! where? in Genoa?
  Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one
  night fourscore ducats.
  Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my
  gold 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 glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture
  him: I am glad of it.
  One of them showed me a ring that he had of your
  daughter for a monkey.
  Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my
  turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor:
  I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
  But Antonio is certainly undone.
  Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee
  me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I
  will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were
  he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I
  will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue;
  go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

SCENE II. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
      Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants
  I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two
  Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
  I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.
  I would detain you here some month or two
  Before you venture for me. I could teach you
  How to choose right, but I am then forsworn;
  So will I never be. Beshrew your eyes,
  They have o'erlook'd me and divided me;
  One half of me is yours, the other half yours,
  Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
  And so all yours. Prove it so,
  I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time,
  To eke it and to draw it out in length,
  To stay you from election.
  Let me choose
  For as I am, I live upon the rack.
  Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,
  Where men enforced do speak anything.
  Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
  Well then, confess and live.
  'Confess' and 'love'
  Had been the very sum of my confession:
  But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
  Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:
  If you do love me, you will find me out.
  Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.
  Let music sound while he doth make his choice;
  Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,
  Fading in music: such it is
  As are those dulcet sounds in break of day
  That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,
  And summon him to marriage. Go, Hercules!
  Live thou, I live!
      Music, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself
  Tell me where is fancy bred,
  Or in the heart, or in the head?
  How begot, how nourished?
  Reply, reply.
  It is engender'd in the eyes,
  With gazing fed; and fancy dies
  In the cradle where it lies.
  Let us all ring fancy's knell
  I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
  Ding, dong, bell.
  So may the outward shows be least themselves:
  How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
  As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
  The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;
  Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk.
  Look on beauty,
  And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;
  Which therein works a miracle in nature,
  Making them lightest that wear most of it:
  So are those crisped snaky golden locks
  Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
  Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
  To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
  Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
  The seeming truth which cunning times put on
  To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
  Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;
  Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
  'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,
  Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,
  Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;
  And here choose I; joy be the consequence!
  [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,
  As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
  And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,
  Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,
  In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.
  I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,
  For fear I surfeit.
  What find I here?
      Opening the leaden casket
  Fair Portia's counterfeit! Move those eyes
  Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
  Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,
  Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
  Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
  The painter plays the spider and hath woven
  A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,
  Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,--
  How could he see to do them? having made one,
  Methinks it should have power to steal both his
  And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far
  The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
  In underprizing it, so far this shadow
  Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,
  The continent and summary of my fortune.
      You that choose not by the view,
      Chance as fair and choose as true!
      Since this fortune falls to you,
      Be content and seek no new,
      If you be well pleased with this
      And hold your fortune for your bliss,
      Turn you where your lady is
      And claim her with a loving kiss.
  A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;
      [kissses her]
  You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
  Such as I am: yet, for you
  I would be trebled twenty times myself;
  A thousand times more fair, but the full sum of me
  Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised;
  Happy in this, she is not yet so old
  But she may learn; happier than this,
  She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
  Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit
  Commits itself to yours to be directed,
  As from her lord, her governor, her king.
  Myself and what is mine to you and yours
  Is now converted: but now I was the lord
  Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
  Queen o'er myself: and even now, but now,
  This house, these servants and this same myself
  Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring;
  Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
  Let it presage the ruin of your love.
  Madam, you have bereft me of all words,
  Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;
  But when this ring
  Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:
  O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!
  My lord and lady, it is now our time,
  That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,
  To cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady!
  My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,
  I wish you all the joy that you can wish;
  And when your honours mean to solemnize
  The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,
  Even at that time I may be married too.
  With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
  I thank your lordship, you have got me one.
  My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
  You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;
  Your fortune stood upon the casket there,
  And so did mine too, as the matter falls;
  With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
  I got a promise of this fair one here
  To have her love, provided that your fortune
  Achieved her mistress.
                            Is this true, Nerissa?
  Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal.
  And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
  Yes, faith, my lord.
  Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.
  We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.
  What, and stake down?
  No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.
  But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What,
  and my old Venetian friend Salerio?
      Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a Messenger from Venice
  Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither;
  If that the youth of my new interest here
  Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,
  I bid my very friends and countrymen,
  Sweet Portia, welcome.
  So do I, my lord:
  They are entirely welcome.
  I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,
  My purpose was not to have seen you here;
  But meeting with Salerio by the way,
  He did entreat me, past all saying nay,
  To come with him along.
  I did, my lord;
  And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio
  Commends him to you.
      Gives Bassanio a letter
  Ere I ope his letter,
  I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.
  Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;
  Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there
  Will show you his estate.
  Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.
  Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice?
  There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,
  That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek:
  Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the world
  Could turn so much the constitution
  Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!
  With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,
  And I must freely have the half of anything
  That this same paper brings you.
  O sweet Portia,
  Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
  That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,
  When I did first impart my love to you,
  I freely told you, all the wealth I had
  Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;
  And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady,
  Rating myself at nothing, you shall see
  How much I was a braggart. When I told you
  My state was nothing, I should then have told you
  That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,
  I have engaged myself to a dear friend,
  Engaged my friend to his mere enemy,
  To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;
  The paper as the body of my friend,
  And every word in it a gaping wound,
  Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?
  Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?
  From Tripolis, from Mexico and England,
  From Lisbon, Barbary and India?
  And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch
  Of merchant-marring rocks?
  Not one, my lord.
  Besides, it should appear, that if he had
  The present money to discharge the Jew,
  He would not take it. Twenty merchants,
  The duke himself, and the magnificoes
  Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;
  But none can drive him from the envious plea
  Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.
  When I was with him I have heard him swear
  To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,
  That he would rather have Antonio's flesh
  Than twenty times the value of the sum
  That he did owe him.
  Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
  The dearest friend to me, the kindest man.
  What sum owes he the Jew?
  For me three thousand ducats.
  What, no more? Pay him six thousand,
  Double six thousand, and then treble that,
  Before a friend of this description
  Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.
  But let me hear the letter of your friend.
  [Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all
  miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is
  very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since
  in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all
  debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but
  see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your
  pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come,
  let not my letter.
  First go with me to church and call me wife,
  And then away to Venice to your friend;
  For never shall you lie by Portia's side
  With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold
  To pay the petty debt twenty times over:
  When it is paid, bring your true friend along.
  My maid Nerissa and myself meantime
  Will live as maids and widows.
  O love, dispatch all business, and be gone!
  Since I have your good leave to go away,
  I will make haste: but, till I come again,
  No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,
  No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.


SCENE III. Venice. A street.
  Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;
  This is the fool that lent out money gratis:
  Gaoler, look to him.
                    Hear me yet, good Shylock.
  I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond:
  I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.
  Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause;
  But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:
  The duke shall grant me justice.
  I pray thee, hear me speak.
  I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:
  I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.
  I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
  To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
  To Christian intercessors. Follow not;
  I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.
  It is the most impenetrable cur
  That ever kept with men.
  Let him alone:
  I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.
  He seeks my life; his reason well I know:
  I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures
  Many that have at times made moan to me;
  Therefore he hates me.
                          I am sure the duke
  Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
  The duke cannot deny the course of law:
  These griefs and losses have so bated me,
  That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
  To-morrow to my bloody creditor.
  Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come
  To see me pay his debt, and then I care not!
SCENE IV. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.
  Madam, if you knew to whom you show this honour,
  How true a gentleman you send relief,
  How dear a lover of my lord your husband,
  I know you would be prouder of the work
  Than customary bounty can enforce you.
  I never did repent for doing good,
  Nor shall not now: this Antonio
  Being the bosom lover of my lord,
  Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,
  How little is the cost I have bestow'd
  In purchasing the semblance of my soul
  From out the state of hellish misery!
  Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
  The husbandry and manage of my house
  Until my lord's return: for mine own part,
  I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow
  To live in prayer and contemplation,
  Only attended by Nerissa here,
  Until her husband and my lord's return:
  There is a monastery two miles off;
  And there will we abide. I do desire you
  Not to deny this imposition;
  The which my love and some necessity
  Now lays upon you.
                    Madam, with all my heart;
  I shall obey you in all fair commands.
  My people do already know my mind,
  And will acknowledge you and Jessica
  In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.
  And so farewell, till we shall meet again.
  Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!
  I wish your ladyship all heart's content.
  I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased
  To wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica.
      Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO
  Now, Balthasar,
  As I have ever found thee honest-true,
  So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
  And use thou all the endeavour of a man
  In speed to Padua: see thou render this
  Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario;
  And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,
  Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed
  Unto the tranect, to the common ferry
  Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,
  But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.
  Madam, I go with all convenient speed.
  Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand
  That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands
  Before they think of us.
                              Shall they see us?
  They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit,
  That they shall think we are accomplished
  With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,
  When we are both accoutred like young men,
  I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,
  And wear my dagger with the braver grace,
  And speak between the change of man and boy
  With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps
  Into a manly stride, and speak of frays
  Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,
  How honourable ladies sought my love,
  Which I denying, they fell sick and died;
  I could not do withal; then I'll repent,
  And wish for all that, that I had not killed them;
  And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,
  That men shall swear I have discontinued school
  Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind
  A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,
  Which I will practise.
                         Why, shall we turn to men?
  Fie, what a question's that!
  But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device
  When I am in my coach, which stays for us
  At the park gate; and therefore haste away,
  For we must measure twenty miles to-day.


SCENE V. The same. A garden.
  Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father
  are to be laid upon the children: therefore, I
  promise ye, I fear you. 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 partly 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 should be visited upon me.
  Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and
  I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a
  Truly, the more to blame he: this making Christians will raise the
  price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we
  shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.
  I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.
  I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if
  you thus get my wife into corners.
  Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I
  are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for
  me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he
  says, you are no good member of the commonwealth,
  for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the
  price of pork.
  I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than
  you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the
  Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.
  It is much that the Moor should be more than reason:
  but if she be less than an honest woman, she is
  indeed more than I took her for.
  Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.
  That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
  Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid
  them prepare dinner.
  For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the
  meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in
  to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and
  conceits shall govern.
  How cheerest thou, Jessica?
  And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,
  How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?
  Past all expressing. It is very meet
  The Lord Bassanio live an upright life;
  For, having such a blessing in his lady,
  He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;
  Even such a husband
  Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
  Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
  I will anon: first, let us go to dinner.
  Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.
  No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;
  ' Then, howso'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things
  I shall digest it.
  Well, I'll set you forth.


  SCENE I. Venice. A court of justice.
  Enter the DUKE, the Magnificoes, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO,
  SALERIO, and others.
  What, is Antonio here?
  Ready, so please your grace.
  I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
  A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
  uncapable of pity, void and empty
  From any dram of mercy.
  I do oppose
  My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
  To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
  The very tyranny and rage of his.
  Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
  He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
  Make room, and let him stand before our face.
  Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
  That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
  To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought
  Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
  Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
  And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
  Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
  Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
  But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
  Forgive a moiety of the principal;
  Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
  That have of late so huddled on his back,
  Enow to press a royal merchant down
  And pluck commiseration of his state
  From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
  From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
  To offices of tender courtesy.
  We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
  I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
  And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
  To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
  If you deny it, let the danger light
  Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
  You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
  A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
  Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:
  But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?
  What if my house be troubled with a rat
  And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats
  To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?
  Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
  Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
  And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,
  Cannot contain their urine: for affection,
  Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood
  Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:
  As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
  Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
  Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
  Why he, a woollen bagpipe; but of force
  Must yield to such inevitable shame
  As to offend, himself being offended;
  So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
  More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing
  I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
  A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
  This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
  To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
  I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
  Do all men kill the things they do not love?
  Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
  Every offence is not a hate at first.
  What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
  I pray you, think you question with the Jew:
  You may as well go stand upon the beach
  And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
  You may as well use question with the wolf
  Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
  You may as well forbid the mountain pines
  To wag their high tops and to make no noise,
  When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;
  You may as well do anything most hard,
  As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--
  His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,
  Make no more offers, use no farther means,
  But with all brief and plain conveniency
  Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.
  For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
  What judgment shall I dread, doing
  Were in six parts and every part a ducat,
  I would not draw them; I would have my bond.
  How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
  What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
  You have among you many a purchased slave,
  Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,
  You use in abject and in slavish parts,
  Because you bought them: shall I say to you,
  Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
  Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds
  Be made as soft as yours and let their palates
  Be season'd with such viands? You will answer
  'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you:
  The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
  Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.
  If you deny me, fie upon your law!
  There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
  I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
  Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
  Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
  Whom I have sent for to determine this,
  Come here to-day.
                       My lord, here stays without
  A messenger with letters from the doctor,
  New come from Padua.
  Bring us the letter; call the messenger.
  Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!
  The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,
  Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
  I am a tainted wether of the flock,
  Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit
  Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me
  You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
  Than to live still and write mine epitaph.
       [Enter NERISSA, dressed like a lawyer's clerk.]
  Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
  From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.
      [Presenting a letter]
  Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
  To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
  Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
  Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,
  No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
  Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
  No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
  O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!
  And for thy life let justice be accused.
  Thy currish spirit
  Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,
  Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
  And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
  Infused itself in thee; for thy desires
  Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.
  Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
  Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:
  Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
  To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
  This letter from Bellario doth commend
  A young and learned doctor to our court.
  Where is he?
                   He attendeth here hard by,
  To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
  With all my heart. Some three or four of you
  Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
  Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
  Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of
  your letter I am very sick: but in the instant that
  your messenger came, in loving visitation was with
  me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I
  acquainted him with the cause in controversy between
  the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er
  many books together: he is furnished with my
  opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the
  greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes
  with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's
  request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of
  years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend
  estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so
  old a head. I leave him to your gracious
  acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his
  You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:
  And here, I take it, is the doctor come.
      [Enter PORTIA, dressed like a doctor of laws]
  Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?
  I did, my lord.
                You are welcome: take your place.
  Are you acquainted with the difference
  That holds this present question in the court?
  I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
  Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
  Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
  Is your name Shylock?
                       Shylock is my name.
  Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
  Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
  Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
  You stand within his danger, do you not?
  Ay, so he says.
                 Do you confess the bond?
  I do.
              Then must the Jew be merciful.
  On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
  The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
  Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
  It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
  'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
  The throned monarch better than his crown;
  His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
  The attribute to awe and majesty,
  Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
  But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
  It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
  It is an attribute to God himself;
  And earthly power doth then show likest God's
  When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
  Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
  That, in the course of justice, none of us
  Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
  And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
  The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
  To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
  Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
  Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
  My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,
  The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
  Is he not able to discharge the money?
  Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
  Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
  I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
  On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
  If this will not suffice, it must appear
  That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
  Wrest once the law to your authority:
  To do a great right, do a little wrong,
  And curb this cruel devil of his will.
  It must not be; there is no power in Venice
  Can alter a decree established:
  'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
  And many an error by the same example
  Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
  A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
  O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
  I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
  Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
  Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
  An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
  Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
  No, not for Venice.
                  Why, this bond is forfeit;
  And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
  A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
  Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:
  Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
  When it is paid according to the tenor.
  It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
  You know the law, your exposition
  Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
  Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
  Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear
  There is no power in the tongue of man
  To alter me: I stay here on my bond.
  Most heartily I do beseech the court
  To give the judgment.
                                Why then, thus it is:
  You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
  O noble judge! O excellent young man!
  For the intent and purpose of the law
  Hath full relation to the penalty,
  Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
  'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!
  How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
  Therefore lay bare your bosom.
                                 Ay, his breast:
  So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge?
  'Nearest his heart:' those are the very words.
  It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
  The flesh?
                   I have them ready.
  Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
  To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
  Is it so nominated in the bond?
  It is not so express'd: but what of that?
  'Twere good you do so much for charity.
  I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
  You, merchant, have you any thing to say?
  But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.
  Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!
  Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
  For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
  Than is her custom: it is still her use
  To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
  To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
  An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
  Of such misery doth she cut me off.
  Commend me to your honourable wife:
  Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
  Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death;
  And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
  Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
  Antonio, I am married to a wife
  Which is as dear to me as life itself;
  But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
  Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:
  I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
  Here to this devil, to deliver you.
  Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
  If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
  I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:
  I would she were in heaven, so she could
  Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
  'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
  The wish would make else an unquiet house.
  These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter;
  Would any of the stock of Barrabas
  Had been her husband rather than a Christian!
  We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.
  A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:
  The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
  Most rightful judge!
  And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:
  The law allows it, and the court awards it.
  Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!
  Tarry a little; there is something else.
  This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
  The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh:'
  Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
  But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
  One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
  Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
  Unto the state of Venice.
  O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!
  Is that the law?
                    Thyself shalt see the act:
  For, as thou urgest justice, be assured
  Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
  O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!
  I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice
  And let the Christian go.
                 Here is the money.
  The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:
  He shall have nothing but the penalty.
  O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
  Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
  Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more
  But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more
  Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
  As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
  Or the division of the twentieth part
  Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn
  But in the estimation of a hair,
  Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.
  A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
  Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.
  Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
  Give me my principal, and let me go.
  I have it ready for thee; here it is.
  He hath refused it in the open court:
  He shall have merely justice and his bond.
  A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel!
  I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
  Shall I not have barely my principal?
  Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
  To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
  Why, then the devil give him good of it!
  I'll stay no longer question.
  Tarry, Jew:
  The law hath yet another hold on you.
  It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
  If it be proved against an alien
  That by direct or indirect attempts
  He seek the life of any citizen,
  The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
  Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
  Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
  And the offender's life lies in the mercy
  Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
  Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke.
  Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:
  And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
  Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
  Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
  That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,
  I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:
  For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
  The other half comes to the general state,
  Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
  Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.
  Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
  You take my house when you do take the prop
  That doth sustain my house; you take my life
  When you do take the means whereby I live.
  What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
  A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
  So please my lord the duke and all the court
  To quit the fine for one half of his goods,
  I am content; so he will let me have
  The other half in use, to render it,
  Upon his death, unto the gentleman
  That lately stole his daughter:
  Two things provided more, that, for this favour,
  He presently become a Christian;
  The other, that he do record a gift,
  Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd,
  Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
  He shall do this, or else I do recant
  The pardon that I late pronounced here.
  Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
  I am content.
  Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
  I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;
  I am not well: send the deed after me,
  And I will sign it.
              Get thee gone, but do it.
      [Exit SHYLOCK]
  Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
  I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:
  I must away this night toward Padua,
  And it is meet I presently set forth.
  I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
  Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
  For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
      [Exeunt Duke and his train]
  Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
  Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
  Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,
  Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
  We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
  And stand indebted, over and above,
  In love and service to you evermore.
  He is well paid that is well satisfied;
  And I, delivering you, am satisfied
  And therein do account myself well paid:
  Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:
  Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
  Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you,
  Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
  You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
  Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;
  And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you:
  Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;
  And you in love shall not deny me this.
  This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle!
  I will not shame myself to give you this.
  I will have nothing else but only this;
  And now methinks I have a mind to it.
  The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
  And find it out by proclamation:
  Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
  I see, sir, you are liberal in offers
  You taught me first to beg; and now methinks
  You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.
  Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
  And when she put it on, she made me vow
  That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.
  That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
  An if your wife be not a mad-woman,
  And know how well I have deserved the ring,
  She would not hold out enemy for ever,
  For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
      [Exeunt Portia and Nerissa]
  My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
  Let his deservings and my love withal
  Be valued against your wife's commandment.
  Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;
  Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
  Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste.
       [Exit Gratiano]
  Come, you and I will thither presently;
  And in the morning early will we both
  Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.


SCENE II. The same. A street.
      [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA]
  Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed
  And let him sign it: we'll away to-night
  And be a day before our husbands home:
  This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
      [Enter GRATIANO]
  Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en
  My Lord Bassanio upon more advice
  Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
  Your company at dinner.
  That cannot be:
  His ring I do accept most thankfully:
  And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,
  I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.
  That will I do.
                  Sir, I would speak with you.
      [Aside to PORTIA]
  I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,
  Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
  [Aside to NERISSA] Thou mayst, I warrant.
  We shall have old swearing
  That they did give the rings away to men;
  But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.
  Away! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.
  Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?


  SCENE I. Belmont. Avenue to PORTIA'S house.
      [Enter LORENZO and JESSICA]
  The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
  When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
  And they did make no noise, in such a night
  Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls
  And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
  Where Cressid lay that night.
                                     In such a night
  Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew
  And saw the lion's shadow ere himself
  And ran dismay'd away.
                                 In such a night
  Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
  Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love
  To come again to Carthage.
  In such a night
  Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
  That did renew old AEson.
  In such a night
  Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
  And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
  As far as Belmont.
  In such a night
  Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
  Stealing her soul with many vows of faith
  And ne'er a true one.
  In such a night
  Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
  Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
  I would out-night you, did no body come;
  But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
       [Enter STEPHANO]
  Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
  A friend.
  A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?
  Stephano is my name; and I bring word
  My mistress will before the break of day
  Be here at Belmont.
  I pray you, is my master yet return'd?
  He is not, nor we have not heard from him.
  But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
  And ceremoniously let us prepare
  Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
       [Enter LAUNCELOT]
  Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!
  Who calls?
  Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?
  Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!
  Leave hollaing, man: here.
  Sola! where? where?
  Tell him there's a post come from my master, with
  his horn full of good news: my master will be here
  ere morning.
  Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.
  And yet no matter: why should we go in?
  My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
  Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
  And bring your music forth into the air.
      [Exit Stephano]
  How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
  Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
  Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
  Become the touches of sweet harmony.
  Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
  Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
  There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
  But in his motion like an angel sings,
  Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
  Such harmony is in immortal souls;
  But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
  Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
      [Enter Musicians]
  Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn!
  With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
  And draw her home with music.
  I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
  The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
  For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
  Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
  Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
  Which is the hot condition of their blood;
  If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
  Or any air of music touch their ears,
  You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
  Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
  By the sweet power of music.
  That light we see is burning in my hall.
  How far that little candle throws his beams!
  So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
  Music! hark!
  It is your music, madam, of the house.
  Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
  Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
  Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
  And would not be awaked.
      [Music ceases.]
  That is the voice,
  Or I am much deceived, of Portia.
  Dear lady, welcome home.
  We have been praying for our husbands' healths,
  Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
  Are they return'd?
  Madam, they are not yet;
  But there is come a messenger before,
  To signify their coming.
  Go in, Nerissa;
  Give order to my servants that they take
  No note at all of our being absent hence;
  Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.
       [A tucket sounds]
  Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:
  We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.
  This night methinks is but the daylight sick;
  It looks a little paler: 'tis a day,
  Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
      [Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their followers]
  You are welcome home, my lord.
  I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend.
  This is the man, this is Antonio,
  To whom I am so infinitely bound.
  You should in all sense be much bound to him.
  For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
  No more than I am well acquitted of.
  Sir, you are very welcome to our house.
  [To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;
  In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk:
  A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter?
  About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
  That she did give me.
  You swore to me, when I did give it you,
  That you would wear it till your hour of death
  And that it should lie with you in your grave:
  Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
  A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,
  No higher than thyself; the judge's clerk,
  A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee:
  I could not for my heart deny it him.
  You were to blame, I must be plain with you,
  To part so slightly with your wife's first gift.
  I gave my love a ring and made him swear
  Never to part with it; and here he stands;
  I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it
  Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth
  That the world masters.
  [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off
  And swear I lost the ring defending it.
  My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away
  Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed
  Deserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk,
  That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;
  And neither man nor master would take aught
  But the two rings.
                    What ring gave you my lord?
  Not that, I hope, which you received of me.
  If I could add a lie unto a fault,
  I would deny it; but you see my finger
  Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.
  Even so void is your false heart of truth.
  By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
  Until I see the ring.
                           Nor I in yours
  Till I again see mine.
                           Sweet Portia,
  If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
  If you did know for whom I gave the ring
  And would conceive for what I gave the ring
  And how unwillingly I left the ring,
  When nought would be accepted but the ring,
  You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
  If you had known the virtue of the ring,
  Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
  Or your own honour to contain the ring,
  You would not then have parted with the ring.
  Nerissa teaches me what to believe:
  I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.
  No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,
  No woman had it, but a civil doctor,
  Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me
  And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him
  And suffer'd him to go displeased away;
  Even he that did uphold the very life
  Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?
  For, by these blessed candles of the night,
  Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd
  The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
  Let not that doctor e'er come near my house:
  I will become as liberal as you;
  I'll not deny him any thing I have,
  No, not my body nor my husband's bed:
  I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.
  And I his clerk; therefore be well advised
  How you do leave me to mine own protection.
  Well, do you so; let not me take him, then;
  For if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.
  I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.
  Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.
  Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;
  And, in the hearing of these many friends,
  Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear
  I never more will break an oath with thee.
  I once did lend my body for his wealth;
  Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
  Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,
  My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
  Will never more break faith advisedly.
  Then you shall be his surety. Give him this
  And bid him keep it better than the other.
  Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.
  By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!
  I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio;
  For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.
  And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;
  For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,
  In lieu of this last night did lie with me.
  What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?
  Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed:
  Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;
  It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
  There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,
  Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here
  Shall witness I set forth as soon as you
  And even but now return'd; I have not yet
  Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;
  And I have better news in store for you
  Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;
  There you shall find three of your argosies
  Are richly come to harbour suddenly:
  You shall not know by what strange accident
  I chanced on this letter.
  I am dumb.
  Were you the doctor and I knew you not?
  Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?
  Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,
  Unless he live until he be a man.
  Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-fellow:
  When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
  Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;
  For here I read for certain that my ships
  Are safely come to road.
                               How now, Lorenzo!
  My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
  There do I give to you and Jessica,
  From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
  After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.
  Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
  Of starved people.
                        It is almost morning,
  And yet I am sure you are not satisfied
  Of these events at full. Let us go in;
  And charge us there upon inter'gatories,
  And we will answer all things faithfully.
  Let it be so: the first inter'gatory
  That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,
  Whether till the next night she had rather stay,
  Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:
  But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
  That I were couching with the doctor's clerk.
  Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing
  So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.