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Sa/anio. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
Misfortune to my ventures out of doubt
Salarino. My wind cooling my broth
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Antonio. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,
Salarino. Why, then you are in love.
Antonio. Fie, fie!
Salar. 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 Bassanro, 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. 61
Antonio. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
Salarino. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass. 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.
Lor. 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, go
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
For saying nothing, when, I am very sure,
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
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. 11o
Gra. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried. [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,
I owe the most, in money and in love,
Antonio. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
Bassanio. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 141
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
Or bring your latter hazard back again
Antonio. You know me well, and herein spend but time
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
Bassanto. In Belmont is a lady richly left;
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,
O my Antonio, had I but the means
I have a mind presages me such thrift,
Antonio. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
SCENE II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.
Portia. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.
Nerissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: