ACT I SCENE I | Venice. A street. | |
[Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO] |
ANTONIO | In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: |
| It wearies me; you say it wearies you; |
| But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, |
| What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, |
| I am to learn; |
| And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, |
| That I have much ado to know myself. |
SALARINO | Your mind is tossing on the ocean; |
| There, where your argosies with portly sail, |
| Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, | 10 |
| Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, |
| Do overpeer the petty traffickers, |
| That curtsy to them, do them reverence, |
| As they fly by them with their woven wings. |
SALANIO | 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 | 20 |
| Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt |
| Would make me sad. |
SALARINO | My wind cooling my broth |
| Would blow me to an ague, when I thought |
| What harm a wind too great at sea might do. |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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 bechanced would make me sad? |
| But tell not me; I know, Antonio |
| Is sad to think upon his merchandise. | 40 |
ANTONIO | 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. |
SALARINO | Why, then you are in love. |
ANTONIO | Fie, fie! |
SALARINO | Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, |
| Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy |
| For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, |
| Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, | 50 |
| Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: |
| Some that will evermore peep through their eyes |
| And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, |
| And other of such vinegar aspect |
| That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, |
| Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. |
[Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO] |
SALANIO | Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, |
| Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: |
| We leave you now with better company. |
SALARINO | I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, | 60 |
| If worthier friends had not prevented me. |
ANTONIO | Your worth is very dear in my regard. |
| I take it, your own business calls on you
|
| And you embrace the occasion to depart. |
SALARINO | Good morrow, my good lords. |
BASSANIO | Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when? |
| You grow exceeding strange: must it be so? |
SALARINO | We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. |
[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio] |
LORENZO | My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, |
| We two will leave you: but at dinner-time, | 70 |
| I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. |
BASSANIO | I will not fail you. |
GRATIANO | 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. |
ANTONIO | I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; |
| A stage where every man must play a part, |
| And mine a sad one. |
GRATIANO | Let me play the fool: |
| With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, | 80 |
| And let my liver rather heat with wine |
| Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. |
| Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, |
| Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? |
| Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice |
| By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio-- |
| I love thee, and it is my love that speaks-- |
| There are a sort of men whose visages |
| Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, |
| And do a wilful stillness entertain, | 90 |
| With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion |
| Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, |
| As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, |
| And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!' |
| O my Antonio, I do know of these |
| That therefore only are reputed wise |
| For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, |
| If they should speak, would almost damn those ears, |
| Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. |
| I'll tell thee more of this another time: | 100 |
| 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. |
LORENZO | 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. |
GRATIANO | Well, keep me company but two years moe, |
| Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. |
ANTONIO | Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. | 110 |
GRATIANO | Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable |
| In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible. |
[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO] |
ANTONIO | Is that any thing now? |
BASSANIO | 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. |
ANTONIO | Well, tell me now what lady is the same |
| To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, | 120 |
| That you to-day promised to tell me of? |
BASSANIO | '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, | 130 |
| 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. |
ANTONIO | 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. |
BASSANIO | In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, | 140 |
| I shot his fellow of the self-same flight |
| The self-same way with more advised watch, |
| To find the other forth, and by adventuring both |
| I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof, |
| Because what follows is pure innocence. |
| I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, |
| That which I owe is lost; but if you please |
| To shoot another arrow that self way |
| Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, |
| As I will watch the aim, or to find both | 150 |
| Or bring your latter hazard back again |
| And thankfully rest debtor for the first. |
ANTONIO | You know me well, and herein spend but time |
| To wind about my love with circumstance; |
| And out of doubt you do me now more wrong |
| In making question of my uttermost |
| Than if you had made waste of all I have: |
| Then do but say to me what I should do |
| That in your knowledge may by me be done, |
| And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak. | 160 |
BASSANIO | 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; | 170 |
| 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! |
ANTONIO | 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: | 180 |
| 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. |
[Exeunt] |