The Merchant of Venice, Act II
Act II, Scene 1
[Belmont. A room in Portia's house. The PRINCE OF MOROCCO
enters, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four FOLLOWERS
accordingly, with PORTIA, NERISSA, and their TRAIN.
There is a flourish of cornets.]
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love,
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love, I swear
The best‑regarded virgins of our clime
Hath loved it too: I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
PORTIA
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
But, if my father had not scanted me,
And hedg'd me by his will, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look'd on yet
For my affection.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Even for that I thank you:
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets,
To try my fortune. By this scimitar,
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking‑cubs from the she‑bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his page;
And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.
PORTIA.
You must take your chance,
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose,‑ if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage: therefore be advised.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.
PORTIA
First, forward to the temple: after dinner
Your hazard shall be made.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Good fortune, then!
To make me bless'd or cursed'st among men.
[ALL exit to a flourish of cornets.]
Act II, Scene 2
[Venice. A street. LAUNCELOT the Clown enters alone.]
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew
my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying
to me, "Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot," or "good
Gobbo," or "good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the
start, run away." My conscience says, "No; take heed, honest
Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo," or, as aforesaid,
"honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy
heels." Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack:
"`Via'!" says the fiend, "away!" says the fiend; "for the
heavens, rouse up a brave mind," says the fiend, "and run."
Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart,
says, very wisely to me, "My honest friend Launcelot, being
an honest man's son,"‑ or rather an honest woman's son;‑
for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow
to,‑ he had a kind of taste;‑ well, my conscience says,
"Launcelot, budge not." "Budge," says the fiend. "Budge
not," says my conscience. "Conscience," say I, "you counsel
well." "Fiend," say I, "you counsel well." To be ruled by my
conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who‑ God
bless the mark!‑ is a kind of devil; and, to run away from
the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your
reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the
very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is
but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to
stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly
counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I
will run.
[OLD GOBBO enters with a basket.]
OLD GOBBO
Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to
master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO [aside]
O heavens, this is my true‑begotten father! who, being more
than sand‑blind, high‑gravel‑blind, knows me not:‑ I will
try confusions with him.
OLD GOBBO
Master young gentlemen, I pray you, which is the way to
master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the
next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next
turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the
Jew's house.
OLD GOBBO
By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell
me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with
him or no?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Talk you of young Master Launcelot?‑
[aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.‑
Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
OLD GOBBO
No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father, though I
say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be
thank'd, well to live.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of young
Master Launcelot.
OLD GOBBO
Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
But, I pray you, `ergo', old man, `ergo', I beseech you,
talk you of young Master Launcelot?
OLD GOBBO
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
`Ergo', Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot,
father; for the young gentleman‑ according to Fates and
Destinies, and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three, and such
branches of learning‑ is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would
say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
OLD GOBBO
Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my
very prop.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel‑post, a staff, or a
prop?‑ Do you know me, father?
OLD GOBBO
Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray
you, tell me, is my boy‑ God rest his soul!‑ alive or dead?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Do you not know me, father?
OLD GOBBO
Alack, sir, I am sand‑blind; I know you not.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the
knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child.
Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me
your blessing [kneels]: truth will come to light; murder
cannot be hid long,‑ a man's son may; but, in the end, truth
will out.
OLD GOBBO
Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me
your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son
that is, your child that shall be.
OLD GOBBO
I cannot think you are my son.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot,
the Jew's man; and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.
OLD GOBBO
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be
Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord
worshipp'd might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou
hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill‑horse has
on his tail.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO [rising]
It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I
am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face
when I last saw him.
OLD GOBBO
Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou an thy master
agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest
to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground.
My master's a very Jew: give him a present! give him a
halter: I am famish'd in his service; you may tell every
finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come:
give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,
gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I will run as
far as God has any ground.‑ O rare fortune! here comes the
man:‑ to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any
longer.
[BASSANIO enters with LEONARDO and a FOLLOWER or two.]
BASSANIO
You may do so;‑ but let it be so hasted, that supper be
ready at the furthest by five of the clock. See these
letters deliver'd; put the liveries to making; and desire
Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
[A SERVANT exits.]
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
To him, father.
OLD GOBBO
God bless your worship!
BASSANIO
Gramercy: wouldst thou aught with me?
OLD GOBBO
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,‑
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that would,
sir,‑ as my father shall specify,‑
OLD GOBBO
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve,‑
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have
a desire,‑ as my father shall specify,‑
OLD GOBBO
His master and he‑ saving your worship's reverence‑ are
scarce cater‑cousins,‑
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew having done me
wrong, doth cause me,‑ as my father, being, I hope, an old
man, shall frutify unto you,‑
OLD GOBBO
I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your
worship; and my suit is,‑
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your
worship shall know by this honest old man and, though I say
it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.
BASSANIO
One speak for both.‑ What would you?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Serve you, sir.
OLD GOBBO
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
BASSANIO
I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
And hath preferr'd thee,‑ if it be preferment
To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
The old proverb is very well parted between my master
Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he
hath enough.
BASSANIO
Thou speak'st it well.‑ Go, father, with thy son.‑
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out.‑ Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows': see it done.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Father, in.‑ I cannot get a service, no;‑ I have ne'er a
tongue in my head.‑ Well [looking on his palm], if any man
in Italy have a fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon
a book, I shall have good fortune!‑ Go to, here's a simple
line of life! here's a small trifle of wives! alas, fifteen
wives is nothing! eleven widows and nine maids is a simple
coming‑in for one man; and then to scape drowning thrice,
and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather‑
bed,‑ here are simple scapes! Well, if Fortune be a woman,
she's a good wench for this gear.‑ Father, come; I'll take
my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.
[LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO exit.]
BASSANIO
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:
These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,
Return in haste, for I do feast to‑night
My best‑esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.
LEONARDO
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
[GRATIANO enters.]
GRATIANO
Where's your master?
LEONARDO
Yonder, sir, he walks.
[LEONARDO exits.]
GRATIANO
Signior Bassanio,‑
BASSANIO
Gratiano!
GRATIANO
I have a suit to you.
BASSANIO
You have obtain'd it.
GRATIANO
You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.
BASSANIO
Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano:
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice,‑
Parts that become thee happily enough,
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
But where thou art not known, why, there they show
Something too liberal. Prithee, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
Thy skipping spirit; lest, through thy wild behaviour,
I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.
GRATIANO
Signior Bassanio, hear me:
If I do not put on a sober habit,
Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,
Wear prayer‑books in my pocket, look demurely;
Nay, more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen;
Use all the observance of civility,
Like one well studied in a sad ostent
To please his grandam,‑ never trust me more.
BASSANIO
Well, we shall see your bearing.
GRATIANO
Nay, but I bar tonight: you shall not gauge me
By what we do tonight.
BASSANIO
No, that were pity:
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
That purpose merriment. But fare ye well:
I have some business.
GRATIANO
And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:
But we will visit you at supper‑time.
[BASSANIO and GRATIANO exit.]
Act II, Scene 3
[Venice. A room in Shylock's house. JESSICA and LAUNCELOT enter.]
JESSICA
I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:
Our house is hell: and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee:
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:
Give him this letter; do it secretly;‑
And so farewell: I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Adieu; tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most
sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play the knave and get
thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu: these foolish drops do
something drown my manly spirit: adieu.
JESSICA
Farewell, good Launcelot.‑
[LAUNCELOT exits.]
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
To be ashamed to be my father's child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,‑
Become a Christian, and thy loving wife!
[JESSICA exits.]
Act II, Scene 4
[Venice. A street. GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO enter.]
LORENZO
Nay, we will slink away in supper‑time,
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
GRATIANO
We have not made good preparation.
SALARINO
We have not spoke us yet of torch‑bearers.
SOLANIO
'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,
And better in my mind not undertook.
LORENZO
'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours
To furnish us.
[LAUNCELOT enters with a letter.]
Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.
LORENZO
I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
And whiter than the paper it writ on
Is the fair hand that writ.
GRATIANO
Love‑news, in faith.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
By your leave, sir.
LORENZO
Whither goest thou?
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup
to‑night with my new master the Christian.
LORENZO
Hold here, take this [gives money]:‑ tell gentle Jessica
I will not fail her; speak it privately; go.‑
[LAUNCELOT exits.]
Gentlemen, will you prepare you for this mask to‑night?
I am provided of a torch‑bearer.
SALARINO
Aye, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
SOLANIO
And so will I.
LORENZO
Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
SALARINO
'Tis good we do so.
[SALARINO and SOLANIO exit.]
GRATIANO
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
LORENZO
I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
How I shall take her from her father's house;
What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with;
What page's suit she hath in readiness.
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake:
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,‑
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me: peruse this as thou goest:
Fair Jessica shall be my torch‑bearer.
[GRATIANO and LORENZO exit.]
Act II, Scene 5
[Venice. Before Shylock's house. SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT enter.]
SHYLOCK
Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:‑
What, Jessica!‑ thou shalt not gormandize,
As thou hast done with me;‑ what, Jessica!‑
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;‑
Why, Jessica, I say!
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Why, Jessica!
SHYLOCK
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do nothing
without bidding.
[JESSICA enters.]
JESSICA
Call you? what is your will?
SHYLOCK
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:
There are my keys.‑ But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love; they flatter me:
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian.‑ Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house.‑ I am right loth to go:
There is some ill a‑brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money‑bags to‑night.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach.
SHYLOCK
So do I his.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
And they have conspired together,‑ I will not say you shall
see a mask; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that
my nose fell a‑bleeding on Black‑Monday last at six o'clock
i' th'morning, falling out, that year on Ash‑Wednesday was
four year, in th'afternoon.
SHYLOCK
What, are there masks?‑ Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squealing of the wry‑neck'd fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street,
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces;
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements:
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
My sober house.‑ By Jacob's staff, I swear
I have no mind of feasting forth to‑night:
But I will go.‑ Go you before me, sirrah;
Say I will come.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO
I will go before, sir.‑
Mistress, look out at window for all this;
There will come a Christian by
Will be worth a Jewess' eye.
[LAUNCELOT exits.]
SHYLOCK
What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
JESSICA
His words were, "Farewell, mistress;" nothing else.
SHYLOCK
The patch is kind enough; but a huge feeder,
Snail‑slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild‑cat: drones hive not with me;
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse.‑ Well, Jessica, go in:
Perhaps I will return immediately:
Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:
Fast bind, fast find,‑
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
[SHYLOCK exits.]
JESSICA
Farewell; and if my fortune be not cross'd,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
[JESSICA exits.]
Act II, Scene 6
[Venice. Before Shylock's house. GRATIANO and SALARINO,
the Maskers, enter.]
GRATIANO
This is the pent‑house under which Lorenzo
Desired us to make stand.
SALARINO
His hour is almost past.
GRATIANO
And it is marvel he out‑dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
SALARINO
O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
To seal love's bonds new‑made than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
GRATIANO
That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
How like a younker or a prodigal
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like a prodigal doth she return,
With over‑weather'd ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
SALARINO
Here comes Lorenzo:‑ more of this hereafter.
[LORENZO enters.]
LORENZO
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I'll watch as long for you then.‑ Approach;
Here dwells my father Jew.‑ Ho! who's within?
[JESSICA enters, above, in boy's clothes.]
JESSICA
Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
LORENZO
Lorenzo, and thy love.
JESSICA
Lorenzo, certain; and my love, indeed,‑
For who love I so much? And now who knows
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
LORENZO
Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
JESSICA
Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much ashamed of my exchange:
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.
LORENZO
Descend, for you must be my torch‑bearer.
JESSICA
What, must I hold a candle to my shames?
They in themselves, good sooth, are too‑too light.
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love;
And I should be obscured.
LORENZO
So are you, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once;
For the close night doth play the runaway,
And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.
JESSICA
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.
[JESSICA exits above.]
GRATIANO
Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.
LORENZO
Beshrew me but I love her heartily;
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she hath proved herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
[JESSICA enters below.]
What, art thou come?‑ On, gentlemen; away!
Our masking mates by this time for us stay.
[LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALARINO exit.]
[ANTONIO enters.]
ANTONIO
Who's there?
GRATIANO
Signior Antonio!
ANTONIO
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you.
No mask to‑night: the wind is come about;
Bassanio presently will go aboard:
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
GRATIANO
I am glad on't: I desire no more delight
Than to be under sail and gone to‑night.
[GRATIANO and ANTONIO exit.]
Act II, Scene 7
[Belmont. A room in Portia's house.
[PORTIA enters with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO and their TRAINS.
There is a flourish of cornets.]
PORTIA
Go draw aside the curtains, and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.‑
Now make your choice.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
The first, of gold, which this inscription bears,‑
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;"
The second, silver, which this promise carries,‑
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;"
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,‑
"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath."‑
How shall I know if I do choose the right?
PORTIA
The one of them contains my picture, prince:
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Some god direct my judgement! Let me see;
I will survey the inscriptions back again.
What says this leaden casket?
"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath."
Must give,‑ for what? for lead? hazard for lead?
This casket threatens: men that hazard all
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
What says the silver, with her virgin hue?
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves."
As much as he deserves!‑ Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand:
If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady:
And yet to be afeard of my deserving,
Were but a weak disabling of myself.
As much as I deserve!‑ Why, that's the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding;
But more than these, in love I do deserve.
What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?‑
Let's see once more this saying graved in gold:
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire."
Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her;
From the four corners of the earth they come,
To kiss this shrine, this mortal‑breathing saint:
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia:
The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits; but they come,
As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation
To think so base a thought: it were too gross
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she's immured,
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold,‑ but that's insculpt upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within.‑ Deliver me the key:
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
PORTIA
There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,
Than I am yours.
[He opens the golden casket.]
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.
[reads] "All that glisters is not gold,‑
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgement old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold."
Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
Then, farewell, heat; and welcome frost!‑
Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.
[MOROCCO exits with his TRAIN. A flourish of cornets.
PORTIA
A gentle riddance.‑ Draw the curtains, go.‑
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[PORTIA exits with her TRAIN.]
Act II, Scene 8
[Venice. A street. SALARINO and SOLANIO enter.]
SALARINO
Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
SOLANIO
The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke;
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
SALARINO
He came too late, the ship was under sail:
But there the duke was given to understand
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:
Besides, Antonio certified the duke
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
SOLANIO
I never heard a passion so confused,
So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
"My daughter!‑ O my ducats!‑ O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian!‑ O my Christian ducats!‑
Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter!
And jewels,‑ two stones, two rich and precious stones,
Stol'n by my daughter!‑ Justice! find the girl!
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats!"
SALARINO
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying,‑ his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
SOLANIO
Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.
SALARINO
Marry, well remember'd,
I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,
Who told me,‑ in the narrow seas that part
The French and English, there miscarried
A vessel of our country richly fraught:
I thought upon Antonio when he told me;
And wish'd in silence that it were not his.
SOLANIO
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
SALARINO
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
Bassanio told him he would make some speed
Of his return: he answer'd, "Do not so,‑
Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time;
And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,
Let it not enter in your mind of love:
Be merry; and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there:"
And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
And with affection wondrous sensible
He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.
SOLANIO
I think he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee, let us go and find him out,
And quicken his embraced heaviness
With some delight or other.
SALARINO
Do we so.
[SOLANIO and SALARINO exit.]
Act II, Scene 9
[Belmont. A room in Portia's house. NERISSA and a SERVANT enter.]
NERISSA
Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:
The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,
And comes to his election presently.
[The PRINCE OF ARRAGON, his TRAIN, and PORTIA enter.
There is a flourish cornets.]
PORTIA
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
PRINCE OF ARRAGON
I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:‑
First, never to unfold to any one
Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail
Of the right casket, never in my life
To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly,
If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
Immediately to leave you and be gone.
PORTIA
To these injunctions every one doth swear
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
PRINCE OF ARRAGON
And so have I address'd me. Fortune now
To my heart's hope!‑ Gold, silver, and base lead.
"Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath."
You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.
What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:
"Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire."
What many men desire!‑ that many may be meant
By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
Which pries not to th'interior, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits,
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure‑house;
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:"
And well said too; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O, that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not derived corruptly! and that clear honour
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover that stand bare!
How many be commanded that command!
How much low peasantry would then be glean'd
From the true seed of honour! and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times,
To be new‑varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves."
I will assume desert.‑ Give me a key for this,
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
[He opens the silver casket.]
PORTIA [aside]
Too long a pause for that which you find here.
PRINCE OF ARRAGON
What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia!
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!
"Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves."
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?
PORTIA
To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,
And of opposed natures.
PRINCE OF ARRAGON
What is here?
[reads] "The fire seven times tried this:
Seven times tried that judgement is,
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss.
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So be gone; you are sped."
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here:
With one fool's head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.‑
Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroth.
[ARRAGON exits with his TRAIN.]
PORTIA
Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
NERISSA
The ancient saying is no heresy,‑
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
PORTIA
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
[A SERVANT enters.]
SERVANT
Where is my lady?
PORTIA
Here: what would my lord?
SERVANT
Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify th'approaching of his lord;
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,
To wit, besides commends and courteous breath,
Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love:
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore‑spurrer comes before his lord.
PORTIA
No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,
Thou spend'st such high‑day wit in praising him.‑
Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see
Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.
NERISSA
Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!
[PORTIA, NERISSA, and the SERVANT exit.]