Morochius, Prince of Arragon,
Anthonio, the Merchant of Venice.
Bassanio, his Friend, in love with Portia.
Salanio, Solarino,
Gratiano,
Friends to Anthonio and Bassanio.
Lorenzo, in love with Jeffica.
Shylock, a Jew.
Tubal, a Jew, bis Friend.
Launcelot, a Clown, Servant to the Jew.
Gobbo, an old Man, Father to Launcelot.
Leonardo, Servant to Bassanio.
Balthazar, Servants to
Portia, an Heiress of great Quality and Fortune.
Neriffa, Confident to Portia.
Jessica, Daughter to Shylock.
Senators of Venice, Officers, Failer, Servants and other Attendants.
SCENE, partly at Venice; and partly at Belmont, the Seat of Portia upon the Continent.
SCENE, a Street in VENICE,
Enter Anthonio, Solarino, and Salanio.
N footh, 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 ituff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
And fuch a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.
Sal. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your Argofies with portly Sail, Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the fea, Do over-peer the petty traffickers, That curtsie to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Sola. 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 fits the wind; Peering in maps for ports, and peers, and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt, Would make me fad.
Sal. 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 fee the fandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And fee 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 fee the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me strait of dang'rous rocks ? Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all the spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my filks; 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 fad? But tell not me; -- I know, Anthonio Is sad to think upon his merchandize.
Anth. 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 merchandize makes me not fad. Sola. Why then you are in love. Anth. Fie, fie!
Sola. 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, Because you are not fad. 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 others of such vinegar-aspect, That they'll not show their teeth in way of fmile, Though Neftor swear, the jest be laughable.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano:
Sal. Here comes Baffanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo: fare ye well; We leave ye now with better company.
Sola. I would have staid 'till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Anth. Your worth is very dear in my regard :
I take it, your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occafion to depart. Sal. Good morrow, my good lords.
Baf. Good Signiors both, when shall we laugh? fay,
You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?
Sal. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
Sola. My lord Bassanio, fince you've found Anthonio,
We two will leave you; but at dinner time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Baf. I will not fail you. [Exeunt Solar. and Sala. Gra. You look not well, Signior Anthonio; You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it, that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage, where every man must play his part, And mine's a fad 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 grandfire cut in Alabaster ? Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Anthonio, (I love thee, and it is my love that speaks :) There are a fort of men, whose visages
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