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The Merchant of Venice
act i   Scene 1
William Shakespeare
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       Enter ANTONIO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO
       ANTONIO
       In sooth, 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 stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
       I am to learn;
       And such a want-wit sadness makes of me
       That I have much ado to know myself.
       SALERIO
       Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
       There where your argosies, with portly sail-
       Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
       Or as it were the pageants of the sea-
       Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
       That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
       As they fly by them with their woven wings.
       SOLANIO
       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 sits the wind,
       Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
       And every object that might make me fear
       Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
       Would make me sad.
       SALERIO
       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 see the sandy hour-glass run
       But I should think of shallows and of flats,
       And see 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 see the holy edifice of stone,
       And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
       Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,
       Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
       Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
       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 sad?
       But tell not me; I know Antonio
       Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
       ANTONIO
       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 merchandise makes me not sad.
       SOLANIO
       Why then you are in love.
       ANTONIO
       Fie, fie!
       SOLANIO
       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,
       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 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
       Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
       Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well;
       We leave you now with better company.
       SALERIO
       I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
       If worthier friends had not prevented me.
       ANTONIO
       Your worth is very dear in my regard.
       I take it your own business calls on you,
       And you embrace th' occasion to depart.
       SALERIO
       Good morrow, my good lords.
       BASSANIO
       Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when.
       You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?
       SALERIO
       We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
       Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO
       LORENZO
       My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,
       We two will leave you; but at dinner-time,
       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 chang'd.
       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;
       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 'tis 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,
       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
       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 fools.
       I'll tell thee more of this another time.
       But fish not with this melancholy bait
       For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
       Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile;
       I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
       LORENZO
       Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.
       I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
       For Gratiano never lets me speak.
       GRATIANO
       Well, keep me company but two years moe,
       Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
       ANTONIO
       Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear.
       GRATIANO
       Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
       In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
       Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO
       ANTONIO
       Is that anything 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,
       That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?
       BASSANIO
       'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
       How much I have disabled mine estate
       By something showing a more swelling port
       Than my faint means would grant continuance;
       Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
       From such a noble rate; but my chief care
       Is to come fairly off from the great debts
       Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
       Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,
       I owe the most, in money and in love;
       And from your love I have a warranty
       To unburden 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 honour, be assur'd
       My purse, my person, my extremest means,
       Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.
       BASSANIO
       In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
       I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
       The self-same way, with more advised watch,
       To find the other forth; and by adventuring both
       I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,
       Because what follows is pure innocence.
       I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
       That which I owe is lost; but if you please
       To shoot another arrow that self way
       Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
       As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
       Or bring your latter hazard back again
       And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
       ANTONIO
       You know me well, and herein spend but time
       To wind about my love with circumstance;
       And out of doubt you do me now more wrong
       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.
       BASSANIO
       In Belmont is a lady richly left,
       And she is fair and, fairer than that word,
       Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes
       I did receive fair speechless messages.
       Her name is Portia- nothing undervalu'd
       To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
       Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;
       For the four winds blow in from every coast
       Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks
       Hang on her temples like a golden fleece,
       Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,
       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 presages me such thrift
       That I should questionless be fortunate.
       ANTONIO
       Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;
       Neither have I money nor commodity
       To raise a present sum; therefore go forth,
       Try what my credit can in Venice do;
       That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
       To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia.
       Go presently inquire, and so will I,
       Where money is; and I no question make
       To have it of my trust or for my sake.
       Exeunt
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Dramatis Personae
act i
   Scene 1
   Scene 2
   Scene 3
act ii
   Scene 1
   Scene 2
   Scene 3
   Scene 4
   Scene 5
   Scene 6
   Scene 7
   Scene 8
   Scene 9
act iii
   Scene 1
   Scene 2
   Scene 3
   Scene 4
   Scene 5
act iv
   Scene 1
   Scene 2
act v
   Scene 1