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A time, methinks, too short Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat o To make a world-without-end bargain in :
Ros. Why, that's the way to choke a gibin You will do aught, this shall you do for me :
spirit, Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed Whose influence is begot of that loose grace, To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools: Remote from all the pleasures of the world; A jest's prosperity lies in the ear There stay, until the twelve celestial signs
of him that hears it, never in the tongue Have brought about their annual reckoning: Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears, If this austere insociable life
Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans Change not your offer made in heat of blood; Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds, And I will have you, and that fault withal ; Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But, if they will not, throw away that spirit, But that it bear this trial, and last love;
And I shall find you empty of that fault, Then, at the expiration of the year,
Right joyful of your reformation. Come challenge, challenge me by these deserts, Biron. A twelvemonth? well, befal what wi And, by this virgin palm, now kissing thine,
befal, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut
I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. My woeful self up in a mourning house ;
Prin. Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take m Raining the tears of lamentation,
[ To the King For the remembrance of my father's death.
King. No, madam : we will bring you on you If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
way. Neither intitled in the other's heart.
Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, Jack hath not Jill: these ladies' courtesy
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, Might well have made our sport a comedy. The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.
day, Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to And then 'twill end.
That's too long for a play. Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rank ; You are attaint with faults and perjury;
Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, -
Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.
the plough for her sweet love three years. Bu With three-fold love I wish you all these three. most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogt
Dum. O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife ? that the two learned men have compiled, in prai:
Kath. Not so, my lord;- a twelvemonth and a day of the owl and the cuckoo ? it should have followe I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say: in the end of our show. Come when the king doth to my lady come,
King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so. Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some. Arm. Holla! approach.
Dum. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.
At the twelvemonth's end, This side is Hiems, winter ; this Ver, the spring I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. the one maintain'd by the owl, the other by u
Long. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. cuckoo. Ver, begin.
Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue, Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Birón,
And lady-smocks all silver-white, Before I saw you : and the world's large tongue
And cuckou-buds of yellow hue, Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Do paint the mealows with delight, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts ;
The cuckoo then, on every tree, Which you on all estates will execute,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he, That lie within the mercy of your wit :
Cuckoo ; To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain;
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — word of fear, And, therewithal, to win me, if you please,
Unpleasing to a married car. (Without the which I am not to be won,) You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day
II. Visit the speechless sick, and still converse
When shepherds pripe on oaten strans, With groaning wretches ; and your task shall be,
And merry larks are ploughmen's data With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
When turlles tread, and rooks, and days. To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
And maidens bleach their summer smuk
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit bruoding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, inter. When isicles hang by the wall,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the
songs of Apollo. You, that way; we, this way. Tu-uhit, to-who, a merry note,
(Exeunt. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
DUKE OF VENICE.
Old GOBBO, father to Launcelot. PRINCE OF MOROCCO,
SALERIO, a messenger from Venice.
LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio.
servants to Portia.
Nerissa, her waiting-maid.
Jessica, daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock.
Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants.
SCENE I. - Venice. Street.
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.
And see the holy edifice of stone, Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad; And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks? It wearies me; you say, it wearies you ;
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, Would scatter all her spices on the stream; What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; I am to learn ;
And, in a word, but even now worth this, And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought That I have much ado to know myself.
To think on this; and shall I lack the thought, Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad? There, where your argosies with portly sail, But tell not me; I know Antonio Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood, Is sad to think upon his merchandize. Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, Therefore, my merchandize makes me not sad.
Salan. Why then you are in love.
Fye, fye! Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind; Salan. Not in love neither ? Then let's say, you Peering in maps, for ports, and piers, and roads ;
are sad, And every object, that might make me fear Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
For you, to laugh, and leap, and say, you are Would make me sad.
My wind, cooling my broth, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
Janus, What harm a wind too great might do at sea. Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time : I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper : And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, And other of such vinegar aspéct,
The they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Ant. Is that any thing now?
Bass. Gratiano speaks
an infinite deal of nothing,
more than any man in all Venice : His reasons are Enter Bassanio, LORENZO, and GratiANO.
as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; Sulan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when kinsman,
you have them, they are not worth the search. Gratiano, and Lorenzo : Fare you well ;
Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same We leare jou now with better company:
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, falar. I would have staid till I had made you That you to-day promis'd to tell me of ? merry,
Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
Than my faint means would grant continuance : And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd Sardar, Good-morrow, my good lords.
From such a noble rate ; but my chief care Bau. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Is, to come fairly off from the great debts, Say, when ?
Wherein my time, something too prodigal, You gror exceeding strange: Must it be so ? Hath left me gaged : To you, Antonio, Sular. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours, I owe the most, in money, and in love;
(Ereunt Salarino and SalanIO. And from your love I have a warranty Lm. My lord Bassanio, since you have found To unburthen all my plots, and purposes, Antonio,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
Within the eye of honour, be assurd,
Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; I shot his fellow of the self-same flight A stage, where every man must play a part, The self-same way, with more advised watch, And mine a sad one.
To find the other forth ; and by advent'ring both, Gre.
Let me play the Fool: I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof, With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
Because what follows is pure innocence. And let my liver rather heat with wine,
I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth, Than ray beart cool with mortifying groans.
That which I owe is lost : but if you please Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, To shoot another arrow that self way be like his grandsire cut in alabaster ?
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice As I will watch the aim, or to find both, B; being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, Or bring your latter hazard back again, I love thee, and it is my love that speaks ;
And thankfully rest debtor for the first. There are a sort of men, whose visages
Ant. You know me well ; and herein spend but Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
time, And do a wilful stillness entertain,
To wind about my love with circumstance ; With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong, Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
In making question of my uttermost, As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
Than if you had made waste of all I have dad , when I ope my tips, let no dog bark !
Then do but say to me what I should do, 0, ay Antonio, I do know of these,
That in your knowledge may by me be done, The therefore only are reputed wise,
And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak. For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left, I tey should speak, would almost damn those ears, and she is fair, and, fairer
than that word, Whicdi , hearing them, would call their brothers, Of wond'rous virtues ; sometimes from her eyes fools.
I did receive fair speechless messages : I sell thee more of this another time!
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued Bet fish not, with this melancholy bait,
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia. Te this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ; Compe, good Lorenzo : - Fare ye well, a while ; For the four winds blow in from every coast 11 end my exhortation after dinner.
Renowned suitors : and her sunny locks Lør. Well , we will leave you then till dinner. Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand, I must be one of these same dumb wise men, And many Jasons come in quest of her. For Gratiano never lets me speak.
O my Antonio, had I but the means Gra. Well
, keep me company but two years more, To hold a rival place with one of them, Thou sbalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. I have a mind presages me suca thrift, Ast. Farewell : I'll grow a talker for this gear. That I should questionless bu fortunate. Gra. Thanks, i faith; for silence is only com- Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at seks mendable
Nor have I money, nor commodity L4 a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. To raise a present sum : therefore go forth, (Exeunt GBATIANO and LoBENZO. Try what my credit can in Venice do ;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
I should marry twenty husbands : If he would deGo, presently inquire, and so will I,
spise me, I would forgive him ; for if he love me to Where money is ; and I no question make, madness, I shall never requite him. To have it of my trust, or for my sake. (Exeunt. Ner. What say you then to Faulconbridge, the
young baron of England ? SCENE II.-Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Por. You know, I say nothing to him; for he
understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Enter Portia and NERISSA.
Latin, French, nor Italian; and you will come into Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a- the court and swear, that I have a poor pennyworth weary of this great world.
in the English. He is a proper man's picture ; Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your mise- | But, alas! who can converse with a dumb show? ries were in the same abundance as your good for- How oddly he is suited! I think, he bought his tunes are: And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick, doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonthat surfeit with too much, as they that starve with net in Germany, and his behaviour every where. nothing : It is no mean happiness therefore, to be Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his seated in the mean ; superfluity comes sooner by neighbour ? white hairs, but competency lives longer.
Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him; Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced. for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, Ner. They would be better, if well followed. and swore he would pay him again, when he was
Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were able: I think, the Frenchman became his surety, good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor and sealed under for another. men's cottages, princes' palaces. It is a good di- Ner. How like you the young German, the duke vine that follows his own instructions : I can easier of Saxony's nephew ? teach twenty what were good to be done, than be Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. sober; and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is The brain may devise laws for the blood ; but a hot drunk : when he is best, he is a little worse than a temper leaps over a cold decree: such a hare is mad- man; and when he is worst, he is little better than ness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good coun- a beast : an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope, I sel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the shall make shift to go without him. fashion to choose me a husband:-0 me, the word Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the choose ! I may neither choose whom I would, nor re- right casket, you should refuse to perform your fafuse whom I dislike ; so is the will of a living daugh-ther's will, if you should refuse to accept him. ter curb’d by the will of a dead father :- Is it not hard, Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary
Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy casket : for, if the devil be within, and that temptamen, at their death, have good inspirations; therefore, tion without, I know he will choose it. I will do the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests, any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a spunge. of gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who chooses his Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of meaning, chooses you,) will, no doubt, never be these lords ; they have acquainted me with their dechosen by any rightly, but one who you shall rightly terminations : which is indeed, to return to their love. But what warmth is there in your affection home, and to trouble you with no more suit; unless
, towards any of these princely suitors that are already you may be won by some other sort than your facome?
ther's imposition, depending on the caskets. Por. I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die namest them, I will describe them; and according as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the to my description, level at my affection..
manner of my father's will : I am glad this parcel Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not one
Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing among them but I dote on his very absence, and . I but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appro- pray God grant them a fair departure. priation to his own good parts, that he can shoe him Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's himself: I am much afraid, my lady his mother time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came played false with a smith.
hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? Ner. Then, is there the county Palatine.
Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should
was he called. say, And if you will not have me, choose : he hears
Ner. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever merry tales, and smiles not: I fear, he will prove my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being a fair lady, so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had Por. I remember him well; and I remember him rather be married to a death’s head with a bone in worthy of thy praise. — How now! what news ? his mouth, than to either of these. God defend me from these two !
Enter a Servant. Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, Le Bon ?
to take their leave : and there is a fore-runner come Por. God made him, and therefore let him 'pass from a fifth, the prince of Morocco ; who brings for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a word, the prince, his master, will be here to-night. mocker; But, he ! why, he hath a horse better than Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frowning good heart as I can bid the other four farewell
, 1 than the count Palatine: he is every man in no man should be glad of his approach : if he have the con; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering; he will dition of a saint, and the complexion of a devil, I a