The Merchant of Venice
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 farther, but chose here?
Let’s see once more this saying grav’d 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
Spets 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 immur’d
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 insculp’d 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,
Then I am yours.
[_He unlocks 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.
_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 judgment 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 griev’d a heart
To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.
[_Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets._]
PORTIA.
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VIII. Venice. A street.
Enter Salarino and Solanio.
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 rais’d 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 confus’d,
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 rememb’red.
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 answered “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.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.
Enter Nerissa and a Servitor.
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.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, his train, and
Portia.
PORTIA.
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince,
If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d.
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
ARRAGON.
I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:
First, never to unfold to anyone
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 everyone doth swear
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
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 deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour
Were purchas’d 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 gleaned
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.
Too long a pause for that which you find there.
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.
ARRAGON.
What is here?
_The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times tried that judgment 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.
[_Exit Arragon with his train._]
PORTIA.
Thus hath the candle sing’d 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.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Where is my lady?
PORTIA.
Here. What would my lord?
MESSENGER.
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!
[_Exeunt._]
ACT III
SCENE I. Venice. A street.
Enter Solanio and Salarino.
SOLANIO.
Now, what news on the Rialto?
SALARINO.
Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich
lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the
place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a
tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest
woman of her word.
SOLANIO.
I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or
made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband.
But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain
highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I
had a title good enough to keep his name company!—
SALARINO.
Come, the full stop.
SOLANIO.
Ha, what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.
SALARINO.
I would it might prove the end of his losses.
SOLANIO.
Let me say “amen” betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he
comes in the likeness of a Jew.
Enter Shylock.
How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants?
SHYLOCK.
You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight.
SALARINO.
That’s certain, I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she
flew withal.
SOLANIO.
And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it
is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.
SHYLOCK.
She is damn’d for it.
SALARINO.
That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge.
SHYLOCK.
My own flesh and blood to rebel!
SOLANIO.
Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?
SHYLOCK.
I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood.
SALARINO.
There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet
and ivory, more between your bloods than there is between red wine and
Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at
sea or no?
SHYLOCK.
There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce
show his head on the Rialto, a beggar that used to come so smug upon
the mart; let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let
him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian cur’sy;
let him look to his bond.
SALARINO.
Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh! What’s that
good for?
SHYLOCK.
To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my