BASSANIO, his kinsman and
friend.

SOLANIO, fien
SALARINO,

GRATIANO,

| LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown,
servant to Shylock.
OLD GOBBO, father to Launce.
lot.

LEONARDO, servant to Bas.
sanio.

tonic and Bas- STEPHANO,
sanio.

LORENZO, in love with Jessica.
SHYLOCK, a jew.

TUBAL, a Jew, his friend.

servants to Portia.

PORTIA, a rich heiress.

NERISSA, her waiting-maid.
JESSICA, daughter to Shylock.

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants.

SCENE-Partly at Vere, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Venice. A street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad :
It wearies me; you say it wearies you
But hov. I caugh i, fou id it, or came by it,
What stuff is made of, whereof it is born,
I ar.. to lear.

And such... want-wit sadness makes of me,
That have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;

There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,-
Do overpeer the petty traffickers.

That court'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Solan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth
The better part of my affections would

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads ;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.

Salar.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought
To think on this; and shall I lack the thought,
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?
But tell not me; I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year:

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
Salar. Why, then you are in love.

Ant.

Fie, he!

Salar. Not in love neither? Then let's say you're sad Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy

For you to laugh, and leap, and say you're merry,
'Cause you're not sac. Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time.
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper ;
And other of such vinegar aspéct,

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

Solan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

We leave you now with better company.

Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business calls on you,
And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.

Sala. Good morrow, my good lords.

Bass. Goo signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you've found Antonio, We two will leave you: but, at dinner-time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.

1

Gra. Y look not well, Signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lost that do buy it with much care:
Believe me, you are marvelously chang'd.

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

Gra.

Let me play the fool:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,-
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,-
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a willful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"
O my Antonio, I do know of these,

That therefore only are reputed wise

For saying nothing; when, I'm very sure,

If they should speak, 'twould almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:

But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.-

Come, good Lorenzo.- Fare ye well awhile
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

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

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep mc company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i'f th; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.

Ant. Is that any thing now?

Bass. Gratiano sreaks an inûnite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?

Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance:
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd