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Por. Then you shall be his suret: Give him this; And bid him keep it better than the other.

Ant. Here, lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring. Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! Por. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio; For by this ring the doctor lay with me.

Ner. 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.

Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough: What! are we cuckolds, ere we have deserv'd it? Por. Speak not so grossly.-You are all amaz'd: 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 but even 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.

Ant.

I am dumb.

Bass. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? Gra. Were you the clerk, that is to make me cuckold?

Ner. Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it; Unless he live until he be a man.

bedfellow;

Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my When I am absent, then lie with my wife.

Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life, and

living;

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For here I read for certain, that my ships
Are safely come tɔ road.

Por.
How now, Lorenzo?
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
Ner. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.-
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.
Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.

Por.

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.

Gra. 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. [Exeunt.

OF THE MERCHANT OF VENICE the style is even and easy, with few peculiarities of diction, or anomalies of construction. The comick part raises laughter, and the serious fixes expectation. The probability of either one or the other story cannot be maintained. The union of two actions in one event is in this drama eminently happy. Dryden was much pleased with his own address in connecting the two plots of his SPANISH FRIAR, which yet, I believe, the critick will find excelled by this play.

JOHNSON.

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Within these two days if that thou be'st found
So near our publick court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.

ACT i. Sc. 3.

FROM THE CHISWICK PRESS.

1826,

As You Like It.

PRELIMINARY REMARKS.

DR. GREY and Mr. Upton asserted that this Play was certainly borrowed from the Coke's Tale of Gamelyn, printed in Urry's Chaucer, but it is hardly likely that Shakspeare saw that in manuscript, and there is a more obvious source from whence he derived his plot, viz. the pastoral romance of 'Rosalynde, or Euphues' Golden Legacy,' by Thomas Lodge, first printed in 1590. From this he has sketched his principal characters, and constructed his plot; but those admirable beings, the melancholy Jaques, the witty Touchstone, and his Audrey, are of the poet's own creation. Lodge's novel is one of those tiresome (I had almost said unnatural) pastoral romances, of which the Euphues of Lyly and the Arcadia of Sidney were also popular examples: it has, however, the redeeming merit of some very beautiful verses interspered*, and the circumstance of its having

* The following beautiful Stanzas are part of what is called 'Rosalynd's Madrigal,' and are not unworthy of a place even in a page devoted to Shakspeare:

Love in my bosom like a bee

Doth suck his sweet:

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast,

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of my rest.

Ah, wanton, will ye?

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