Now, by two-headed Janus52,
     Nature hath framed53 strange fellows in her time:
     Some that will evermore peep54 through their eyes
     And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper55,
     And other56 of such vinegar aspect
     That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,
     Though58 Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano

SOLANIO   Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
     Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well,
     We leave you now with better company.

SALERIO   I would have stayed till I had made you merry,
     If worthier friends had not prevented63 me.

ANTONIO   Your worth is very dear64 in my regard.
     I take it your own business calls on you,
     And you embrace66 th’occasion to depart.

SALERIO   Good morrow, my good lords.

BASSANIO   Good signiors both, when shall we laugh68? Say, when?
     You grow exceeding strange69. Must it be so?

SALERIO   We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours70.

Exeunt Salerio and Solanio

LORENZO   My lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,
     We two will leave you, but at dinnertime
     I pray you have in mind73 where we must meet.

BASSANIO   I will not fail you.

GRATIANO   You look not well, Signior Antonio.
     You have too much respect upon the world76:
     They lose it77 that do buy it with much care.
     Believe me, you are marvellously78 changed.

ANTONIO   I hold79 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 old83 wrinkles come,
     And let my liver84 rather heat with wine
     Than my heart cool with mortifying groans85.
     Why should a man whose blood is warm within,
     Sit like his grandsire87 cut in alabaster?
     Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundices88
     By being peevish89? I tell thee what, Antonio—
     I love thee, and it is my love that speaks—
     There are a sort of men whose visages91
     Do cream and mantle92 like a standing pond,
     And do a wilful93 stillness entertain,
     With purpose to be dressed in an opinion94
     Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit95,
     As who should say96, ‘I am, sir, an oracle,
     And when I ope97 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 fools101.
     I’ll tell thee more of this another time.
     But fish not with this melancholy bait104
     For this fool105 gudgeon, this opinion.
     Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile,
     I’ll end my exhortation107 after dinner.

LORENZO   Well, we will leave you then till dinnertime.

To Antonio and Bassanio

     I must be one of these same dumb109 wise men,
     For Gratiano never lets me speak.

GRATIANO   Well, keep me company but two years more,
     Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

ANTONIO   Fare you well, I’ll grow113 a talker for this gear.

GRATIANO   Thanks, i’faith, for silence is only commendable
     In a neat’s tongue dried115 and a maid not vendible.

Exit [Gratiano with Lorenzo]

ANTONIO   Is that anything now?116

BASSANIO   Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more
     than any man in all Venice. His reasons118 are two grains of
     wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere119
     you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth
     the search.

ANTONIO   Well, tell me now, what lady is the same122
     To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage
     That you today promised to tell me of?

BASSANIO   ’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
     How much I have disabled126 mine estate
     By something127 showing a more swelling port
     Than my faint128 means would grant continuance.
     Nor do I now make moan129 to be abridged
     From such a noble rate130, but my chief care
     Is to come fairly off from131 the great debts
     Wherein my time132 something too prodigal
     Hath left me gaged133. To you, Antonio,
     I owe the most in money and in love,
     And from your love I have a warranty135
     To unburden136 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 honour140, be assured
     My purse, my person, my extremest means,
     Lie all unlocked to your occasions142.

BASSANIO   In my schooldays, when I had lost one shaft143,
     I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight144
     The selfsame way with more advisèd145 watch
     To find the other forth146, and by adventuring both
     I oft found both. I urge147 this childhood proof
     Because what follows is pure innocence148.
     I owe you much and, like a wilful youth,
     That which I owe is lost. But if you please
     To shoot another arrow that self151 way
     Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
     As I will watch the aim, or153 to find both,
     Or bring your latter hazard154 back again,
     And thankfully rest155 debtor for the first.

ANTONIO   You know me well, and herein spend but156 time
     To wind about my love with circumstance157,
     And out of158 doubt you do me now more wrong
     In making question of my uttermost159
     Than if you had made waste160 of all I have.
     Then do but161 say to me what I should do
     That in your knowledge may by me be done,
     And I am pressed163 unto it: therefore speak.

BASSANIO   In Belmont is a lady richly left164,
     And she is fair and, fairer than that word,
     Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes166 from her eyes
     I did receive fair speechless messages.
     Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued
     To168 Cato169’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia.
     Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,
     For the four winds blow in from every coast
     Renownèd suitors, and her sunny locks
     Hang on her temples like a golden fleece173,
     Which makes her seat174 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 presages178 me such thrift,
     That I should questionless179 be fortunate.

ANTONIO   Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea,
     Neither have I money, nor commodity181
     To raise a present182 sum: therefore go forth.
     Try183 what my credit can in Venice do,
     That shall be racked184, even to the uttermost,
     To furnish thee185 to Belmont, to fair Portia.
     Go presently186 inquire, and so will I,
     Where money is, and I no question make
     To have it of my trust188 or for my sake.

Exeunt

[Act 1 Scene 2]

running scene 2

Location: Belmont

Enter Portia with her waiting woman, Nerissa

PORTIA   By my troth1, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this
     great world.

NERISSA   You would be3, sweet madam, if your miseries were
     in the same abundance as your good fortunes are, and yet,
     for aught5 I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as
     they that starve with nothing; it is no small happiness,
     therefore, to be seated in the mean7. Superfluity comes sooner
     by white hairs, but competency8 lives longer.

PORTIA   Good sentences9 and well pronounced.

NERISSA   They would be better if well followed.

PORTIA   If to do were as easy as to know what were good to
     do, chapels had been churches and poor men’s cottages
     princes’ palaces. It is a good divine13 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.
     The brain may devise laws for the blood16, but a hot temper
     leaps o’er a cold decree17—such a hare is madness the youth,
     to skip o’er the meshes18 of good counsel the cripple; but this
     reason is not in fashion19 to choose me a husband. O me, the
     word ‘choose!’ I may neither choose whom I would20, nor
     refuse whom I dislike, so is the will21 of a living daughter
     curbed by the will22 of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa,
     that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

NERISSA   Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at
     their death have good inspirations: therefore the lottery25 that
     he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver and lead,
     whereof who27 chooses his meaning chooses you, will no
     doubt never be chosen by any rightly28 but one who you shall
     rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection
     towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

PORTIA   I pray thee overname31 them, and as thou namest
     them, I will describe them, and according to my description
     level at33 my affection.

NERISSA   First, there is the Neapolitan34 prince.

PORTIA   Ay, that’s a colt35 indeed, for he doth nothing but talk
     of his horse, and he makes it a great appropriation36 to his
     own good parts37 that he can shoe him himself. I am much
     afraid my lady his mother played false38 with a smith.

NERISSA   Then is there the County39 Palatine.

PORTIA   He doth nothing but frown, as who40 should say, ‘An
     you will not have me, choose41.’ He hears merry tales and
     smiles not. I fear he will prove42 the weeping philosopher when
     he grows old, being so full of unmannerly43 sadness in his
     youth. I had rather to be married to a death’s-head44 with a
     bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me
     from these two!

NERISSA   How47 say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

PORTIA   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 bad50
     habit of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is every man51
     in no man. If a throstle52 sing, he falls straight a capering, he
     will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I
     should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I
     would forgive him, for if55 he love me to madness, I should
     never requite him.

NERISSA   What say you then to Falconbridge, the young
     baron of England?

PORTIA   You know I say59 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 swear61 that I have a
     poor pennyworth in the62 English. He is a proper man’s
     picture, but alas, who can converse with a dumb show63? How
     oddly he is suited64. I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his
     round hose65 in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his
     behaviour everywhere.

NERISSA   What think you of the other lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA   That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he
     borrowed69 a box of the ear of the Englishman and swore he
     would pay him again when he was able. I think the
     Frenchman became his surety71 and sealed under for another.

NERISSA   How like you the young German, the Duke of
     Saxony73’s nephew?

PORTIA   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 beast77. An the worst fall that ever fell, I
     hope I shall make shift78 to go without him.

NERISSA   If he should offer to choose, and choose the right
     casket, you should80 refuse to perform your father’s will, if you
     should refuse to accept him.

PORTIA   Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a
     deep glass of Rhenish wine83 on the contrary casket, for if the
     devil be within, and that temptation without84, I know he will
     choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to
     a sponge86.

NERISSA   You need not fear, lady, the having any of these
     lords. They have acquainted me with their determinations88,
     which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you
     with no more suit90, unless you may be won by some other sort
     than your father’s imposition91, depending on the caskets.

PORTIA   If I live to be as old as Sibylla92, I will die as chaste as
     Diana93, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s
     will. I am glad this parcel94 of wooers are so reasonable, for
     there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence,
     and I wish them a fair departure.

NERISSA   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 Montferrat99?

PORTIA   Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, as I think, so was he called.

NERISSA   True, madam.