Laun, Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter.
Jef. That were a kind of baftard-hope indeed; fo the fins of my mother should be vifited upon me.
Laun. Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when you thun Scylla, your father, you fall into Charibdis, your mother: well, you are gone both
Jef. I fhall be faved by my husband; he hath made me a chriftian.
Laun. Truly the more to blame he; we were christians enough before, e'en as many as could well live one by another: this making of chriftians will raife the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rafher on the coals for mony.
Jef. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you fay: here
Lor. I fhall grow jealous of you fhortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.
Jef. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heav'n, because I am a Jew's daughter and he fays, you are no good member of the common-wealth; for in converting Jews to chriftians, you raise the price of pork.
Lor. I fhall answer that better to the common-wealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.
Laun. It is much that the Moor fhould be more than reafon but if fhe be less than an honest woman, he is indeed more than I took her for.
Lor. How every fool can play upon a word! I think the belt grace of wit will fhortly turn into filence, and difcourfe grow commendable in none but parrots. Go in, firrah, bid them prepare for dinner.
Laun. That is done, Sir; they have all ftomachs.
Lor. Good lord, what a wit-Inapper are you! then bid them prepare dinner.
Laun. That is done too, Sir; only cover is the word. Lor. Will you cover then, Sir?
Laun. Not fo, Sir, neither; I know my duty.
Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occafion! wilt thou fhew the whole wealth of thy wit in an inftant? I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, ferve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.
Laun. For the table, Sir, it fhall be ferv'd in; for the
meat, Sir, it fhall be covered; for your coming in to din-
ner, Sir, why let it be as humours and conceits fball go-
[Exit Laun,
Lor. O dear difcretion, how his words are fuited !
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words; and I do know
A many fools that ftand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a trickfie word
Defie the matter how far'ft thou, Jeffica?
And now, good fweet, fay thy opinion,
How doft thou like the lord Bassanio's wife?
Jef. Paft all expreffing: it is very meet
The lord Baffanio live an upright life.
For having fuch a Bieffing in his lady,
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth:
And if on earth he do not merit it,
In reafon he should never come to heav'n.
Why, if two Gods fhould play fome heav'nly match,
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be fomething else
Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world
Hath not her fellow.
Lor. Even fuch a 'husband
Haft thou of me, as the is for a wife.
Jef. Nay, but afk my opinion too of that.
Lor. I will anon: firft let us go to dinner.
Jef. Nay, let me praise you while I have a ftomach.
Lor. No, pray thee, let it ferve for table-talk ;
Then, howfoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things,
I fhall digeft it.
Jef. Well, I'll fet you forth.
Enter the Duke, the Senators, Anthonio,
Baffanio, and Gratiano.
Duke. Wanth, Ready, fo please your Grace.
Duke. I'm forry for thee, thou art come to answer A ftony adverfary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
Anth. I have heard
Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualifie
His rig'rous courfe; but fince he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
To fuffer with a quietnefs of fpirit
The very tyranny and rage of his.
Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Sal. He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
Enter Shylock.
Duke. Make room, and let him ftand before our face.
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'ft this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act, and then 'tis thought
Thou'lt fhew thy mercy and remorfe more strange
Than is thy ftrange apparent cruelty.
And, where thou now exact'ft the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his loffes,
That have of late fo hudled on his back;
Enough to press a royal merchant down,
And pluck commiferation of his state
From braffy bofoms, and rough hearts of flint,
From ftubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtefie.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shy. I have poffefs'd your Grace of what I purpose,
And by our holy Sabbath have I fworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me why I rather chufe to have
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats? I'll not anfwer that.
But fay, it is my humour; is it answered?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it bane'd? what, are you answer'd yet?
Some men there are, love not a gaping pig;
Some that are mad if they behold a cat ;
And others, when the bag-pipe fings i' th' nofe,
Cannot contain their urine for affection.*
Masterlefs paffion fways us to the mood
Of what it likes or loaths. Now for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be render'd
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig,
Why he a harmless neceffary cat,
Why he a woollen bag-pipe, but of force
Muft yield to fuch inevitable fhame,
As to offend, himself being offended;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing
I bear Anthonio, that I follow thus
A lofing fuit against him. Are you answered?
Baff. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
T'excufe the current of thy cruelty.
Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
Baf. Do all men kill the thing they do not love?
Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
Baff. Ev'ry offence is not a hate at first.
Shy. What, would't thou have a ferpent fting thee twice?
Anth. I pray you, think you queftion with a Jew.
You may as well go ftand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood 'bate his ufual height;
You may as well ufe queftion with the wolf,
That is, they are so affected with it.
When you behold the ewe bleat for the lamb ;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make a noise
When they are fretted with the gusts of heav'n;
You may as well do any thing moft hard,
As feek to foften that (than which what's harder ?)
His Jewish heart. Therefore I do befeech you,
Make no more offers, ufe no farther means,
But with all brief and plain conveniency
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
Baff. For thy three thousand ducats here is fix.
Shy. If ev'ry ducat in fix thoufand, ducats
Were in fix parts, and ev'ry part a ducat,
I would not draw them, I would have my bond.
Duke. How fhalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none?
Shy. What judgment fhall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, like your affes and your dogs and mules,
You use in abject and in flavish part,
Because you bought them. Shall I fay to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why fweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as foft as yours, and let their palates
Be feafon'd with fuch viands: you will anfwer,
The flaves are ours. So do I anfwer you.
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it.
If you deny me, fie upon your law,"
There is no force in the decrees of Venice:
I ftand for judgment; anfwer; fhall I have it?
Duke. Upon my pow'r I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have fent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
Sal. My lord, here ftays without
A meffenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
Duke. Bring us the letters, call the meffengers.
Ba Good cheer, Anthonio; what, man, courage yet: The few fhall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, VOL. II.
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