Chapters 5
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1 01 - Act 1 30:10
Transpersonae and Actus Primus of The Merchant Affairs by William Jackspere. This is the Liberal Fox recording. All Liberal Fox recordings are on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit liberalfox.org. Bassanio, read by John Burlinson. Solanio, read by Tricia G. Salerino, read by Linda B. Gratiano, read by Sonia. Lorenzo, read by Tony Addison. Shylock, read by Tony Addison. Tubal, read by Maria Casper. Lancelot Gabo, read by John Burlinson. Old Gabo. Read by Ray Casper. Leonardo. Read by Catherine. Balthazar. Read by Phil Schempf. Portia. Read by Charlotte Duckett. Nerissa. Read by Jennifer Fournier. Jessica. Read by Rachel. Portia's Servant. Read by Phil Schempf.
Messenger. Read by Lydia. Man from Antonio. Read by Ray Casper. Narrator. Read by Glenn O'Brien. Actors Primos. And Antonio, Salerno, and Suanio. 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 which sadness makes of me, that I have much ado to know myself. Your mind is tossing on the ocean, there, where your argosies with portly sail, like seigneurs and rich burghers on the flood, or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, do overpeer the petty traffickers that, curtsey to them, do them reverence as they fly by them with their woven wings. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, the better part of my affections would be with my hopes abroad.
I should still be 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. 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 hourglass run, but I should think of shallows and of flats and see my wealthy Andrew docks in sand, veiling 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 pieces 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, perchance, would make me sad? But tell 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. L. Brown. Why, then, you are in love? Antonio Fie, fie. Antonio Fie, 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 framed strange fellows in her time, some that will evermore peep through their eyes and laugh like parrots at a bagpiper, and other of such vinegar aspect, That they'll not show their teeth in way of a smile, though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Graziano. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Graziano and Lorenzo. Very well. We leave you now with better company. I would have stayed till I had made you marry, if worthy your friends had not prevented me. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, and you embrace the occasion to depart. Good morrow, my good lords. Good signors both. When shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so? We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Acciont. Soeno. And Soanio. My lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, we too will leave you. But at dinner-time, I pray you have in mind where we must meet. I will not fail you.
You look not well, signor Antonio. You have too much respect upon the world. They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously changed. I hold the world, but ask the world, Graziano, a stage where every man must play a part, and mine a sad one. 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 this 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 dressed in an opinion of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, as who should say, I am, sir, an oracle, and when I open my lips let no dog bark.
Oh, 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 you well a while. I'll end my exhortation after dinner. 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 more. Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Fa'r you well. I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gratiano.
Thanks, E. Faith, for silence is only commendable in a neat's tongue dried, and a mate not vendable. Exit. Gratiano. Is that anything now? Graciano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are two grains of wheat, hidden two bushels of chaff. You shall seek all day, ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search. Well, tell me now what lady is the same to whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, that you to-day promised to tell me of. "'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, how much I have disabled my estate by something showing a more swelling port than my faint means would grant continuance. Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 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 gagged. 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. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it, and if it stand as you yourself still do. Within the eye of honour, be assured, my purse, my person, my extremest means, lie all unlocked to your occasions. In my school days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight the selfsame way, with more advised watch, to find the other fourth, 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 same 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. LADY. You know me well, and herein spend but time to wind about my love with circumstance, and out of doubt you do 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 pressed unto it, therefore I speak. In Belmont is a lady richly left, and she is fairer, and fairer than that word, of wondrous virtues.
Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages. Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued to Cato's daughter, Brutus Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, for the four winds blow in from every coast renown suitors, and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece, which makes her seat of Belmont Colchistrand, and many jasons come in quest of her. Oh, 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. L'anon Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea, neither have I money nor commodity, to raise a present summer. Therefore go forth, try what my credit can in Venice do, that shall be racked 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 my trust, or for my sake. Exeunt. Enter port here with the great enormous Nerissa. By my troth, Nerissa. My little body is weary of this great world. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see— They are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no small happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. Good sentences, and well-pronounced. They would be better if well-followed. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do.
Chapels would have been churches and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps or a cold decree. Such a hair is the madness of youth to skip all the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning... Is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. Oh, me! The word choose! I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse whom I dislike. So is the will of a living daughter, curbed at the will of a dead f- Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations.
Therefore... The lottery that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly, but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that have already come? I pray thee, ever name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them. And according to my description, level at my affection. First, there is the Neapolitan Prince. Aye, that's a cult indeed, for he does nothing but talk of his horse, and makes it a great appropriation of his own good parts, that he can shoo him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother played false with the smith.
Then is there the County Palantine? He doth nothing but frown, and would say... If you will not have me, choose. He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's head with a bone in its mouth than either of these. God defend me from these two. How say you by the French Lord, Monsieur Lebon? God made him, and therefore he may pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he... Why, he had the horse better than Neapolitans, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is every man in no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight to capering.
He will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he loved me to madness... I shall never requite it. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young Baron of England? You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him. He hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court, and swear I have a poor penny's worth in the English. He is a proper picture of a man, but alas, who can converse with such a dumb show? How oddly he is suited. I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. What think you of the other lord, his neighbour?
That he had a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worse, he is a little better than a beast, and the worst fall that ever fell. I hope I shall make shift to go without him. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.
Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of remish wine on the contrary casket. For if the devil be within, and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge. You need not fear, lady, the having of any of these lords. They have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit. Unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. If I live to be as old as Sevilla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers is so reasonable, for there is not one among them, but I dote on his very absence.
And I pray God grant them a fair departure. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time? A Venetian? A scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquess de Montserrat? Yes, yes, it was Bassanio. As I think, so was he called. True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. Enter Estelle Wingman. The four strangers seek you, madam, to take their leave, and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco. Who brings word the Prince his master will be here tonight? If I could bid the fifth welcome so good a heart as I bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach.
If he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I'd rather have him shive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Syrah, go before. Whilst we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. Exeunt. End of Pisanio with Shylock the two. Three thousand ducats? Well. Aye, sir, for three months. For three months? Well. For the witch, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. Antonio shall become bound. Dr. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer? Dr. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound. Dr. Your answer to that? Dr. Antonio is a good man. Dr. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? Oh, no, no, no, no. My meaning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
Yet his means are in supposition. He had an Argosyde bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies. I understand moreover upon the Rialto. He hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men, there be land rats. And water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates. And then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is notwithstanding sufficient. Three thousand ducats. I think I may take his bond. Mr. Be assured you may. I will be assured I may, and that I may be assured I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? Mr. If it please you to dine with us. Yes, to smell pork, to eat pork. Of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into.
I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following. But I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? Enter Antonio. This is Signor Antonio. How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him, for he is a Christian, but more for that in low simplicity he lends out money gratis, and brings down the rate of usains here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails even there Where merchants most do congregate on me, my bargains and my well-worn thrift, which he calls interest. Cast said be my tribe if I forgive him.
Shylock, do you hear? I am debating of my present store, and by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instantly raise up the gross of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Mr. Brown. A wealthy Hebrew of my tribe will furnish me. But, sir, how many months do you desire? Rest you, fair good signior, your worship was the last man in our mouths. Sherlock. Albeit I neither lend nor borrow, by taking nor by guying of excess. Yet to supply the right wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. Is he yet possessed? How much he would? Aye, aye. Three thousand ducats. And for three months? I had forgot. Three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond. And let me see, but hear you. Mr. Me-thoughts you said you neither lend nor borrow upon advantage?
Mrs. I do never use it. Mr. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep, this Jacob from our holy Abram was, as his wise mother wrought in his behalf, the third possessor. Aye, he was the third. Mrs. And what of him? Did he take interest? Mr. No. Not take interest, not as you would say directly interest, mark what Jacob did, when Laban and himself were compromised, that all the eanings which were streaked and pied should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes being rank in end of autumn turned to the rams, and when the work of generation was between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd peeled me certain wands, and in the doing of the deed of kind he stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, who then, conceiving, did in e'ening time fall party-coloured lambs, and those were Jacobs.
This was a way to thrive, and he was blessed, and thrift is blessing if men steal it not. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serrude for, a thing not in his power to bring to pass, but swayed and fashioned by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver used in rams? I cannot tell. I make it breed as fast. But not me, signor. Mark you this, Bassanio. The devil can cite scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness is like a villain with a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart. Oh, what a goodly outside falsehood hath. Mr. Three thousand ducats to the good round, son. Three months from 12th, and let me see the red. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?
Mr. Signor Antonio. Many a time and oft in the Rialto you have rated me about my monies and my usances. Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the barge of all our tribe. You call me Misbeliever Cutthroat Dog, and sput upon my Jewish cabardine, and all for use of that which is mine own. Well, then, it now appears you need my help. Go to then. You come to me, and you say, Shylock, we would have monies, you say so. You that did void your room upon my bid, and foot me as you spur a stranger cur over your threshold, money is your suit. What should I say to you, should I not say? Hath a dog money? Is it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats, or shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key with bated breath And whispering humbleness, say this, fair sir.
You spat on me on Wednesday last, you spurned me such a day. Another time you called me dog, and for these curtsies I'll lend you thus much monies. I am as like to call thee so again, to spat on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not as to thy friends, for when did friendship take a breed of baraine metal to his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, who, if he break, thou may'st with better face exact the penalties. Why, look you, how you storm! I would be friends with you and have your love. Forget the shames that you have stained me with. Supply your present wants, and take no doubt of usance for my monies, and you'll not hear me. This is kind, I offer.
This were kindness. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there, your single bond, and in a merry sport. If you repay me not on such a day, in such a place, such sum or sums as are expressed in the condition, let the forfeit be nominated for an equal pound of your fair flesh to be cut off and taken, in what part of your body it pleaseth me. Content, e'faith. I'll seal to such a bond, and say there is much kindness in the Jew. You shall not seal to such a bond for me. I'd rather dwell in my necessity. Why, fare not man, I will not forfeit it. Within these two months, that's a month before this bond expires, I do expect return of thrice three times the value of this bond. O Father Abraham, what these Christians are, whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect the thoughts of others, pray you tell me this.
If he should break his day, what should I gain by the exaction of the forfeiteur? A pound of man's flesh taken from a man is not so estimable, profitable neither, as flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats, I say, to buy his favour. I extend this friendship if he will take it so, if not a dear, and, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. Then meet me forthwith at the notaries, give him direction for this merry bond, and I will go and purse the ducat straight. See to my house left in the fearful guard of an unthrifty knave, and presently I'll be with you. Enter. Hi, thee, gentle Jew. The Hebrew will turn Christian. He grows kind. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
LADY Come on. In this there can be no dismay. My ship is come home a month before the day.
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2 02 - Act 2 41:56
Actus Segundus. After the murder of the first by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriFox recording. All LibriFox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out here, please visit LibriFox.org. Actus Segundus. Enter Maroccas at Townymour or in white, and three or four followers accordingly with Portia, Nalisa and a train. Followish, Konetz. Mislike me not, for my complexion, the shadowed livery of the burnished sun, to whom I am a neighbor and near-bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward-born, where Phoebus's 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 feared the valiant.
By my love I swear, The best-regarded virgins of our climb have loved it, too. I would not change this hue, except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 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 hedged me by his wit, to yield myself his wife who wins me by that means, I told you, yourself, renowned prince. Then stood as fair as any corner I have looked on, yet for my affection. 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 Sophie and a Persian prince that won three fields of Sultan Solomon.
I would, oh, stare 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. He must take your chance. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. First, forward to the temple. After dinner, your hazard shall be made. Good fortune, then, to make me blessed or cursedest among men. Accent. Ended the crown alone.
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? Lancelot, Gobbo? Good Lancelot, or Good Gobbo, or Good Lancelot, Gobbo? Use your legs. Take the start. Run away. My conscience says no. Take heed, honest Lancelot. Take heed, honest Gobbo. Or, as aforesaid, honest Lancelot, Gobbo. Do not run. Scorn running with thy heels. Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. Fia! 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, Lanslet, being an honest man's son, or rather, An honest woman, son, for indeed my father did something smack, something groat.
He had a kind of taste. Well, my conscience says Lancelot, 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.
Oh, certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, 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 commandment. I will run. Enter Alt-Gobo with basket. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jews? Aside. Oh, 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. Master, young man, I pray you, which is the way to master Jews? Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all on your left. Mary, at the very next turning. Turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. Mr. Brown. By God, Santis, it will be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one lanswipe that dwells with him dwells with him or no?
Talk you of young master, Lancelot?
Mark me now. Now I will raise the waters. Talk you of young master Lancelot? No, master, sir, but a poor man's son. His father, though I say it, is an honest, exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. Well, let his father be what he will. We talk of young master Lancelot. Your worship's friend and Lancelot, sir. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Lenslet. Of Lancelot, and please your mastership. Ergo, Master Lenslet. Talk not of Master Lenslet, 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.
Mary, God forbid, the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. Do I look like a cudgel or a hoverpost, a staff or a prop?
Do you know me, father? Alack, today, I know you not, young gentleman. But I pray you tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead? Do you not know me, father? Alack, sir, I am sand-blind. I know you not. Nay, indeed. If you had your eyes, you might fail after 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. Truth will come to light. Murder cannot be hid long. A man's son may, but in the end, truth will out. Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you are not Lancelot, my boy. Lanselot, pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Lancelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. I cannot think you are my son. I know not what I shall think of that. But I am Lancelot, the Jews' man. And I am sure Marjorie, your wife, is my mother. Her name is Marjorie, indeed. I'll be sworn, if thou be Lancelot, thou art my own flesh and blood. Lord, worship 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. It would 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. Lord, how art thou changed? How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How agree you now? 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 famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Ha! Ha! Ha! 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. Oh, rare fortune! Here comes the man. To him, father, for I am a Jew if I serve the Jew any longer. Entered Bassanio with a follower or two. You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five o'clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Graziano to come anon to my lodging. To him, father? God bless your worship. Gramercy, wouldst thou art with me? Here's my son, sir, a poor boy. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say to serve. Indeed, the short and the long is I serve the Jew, and I have a desire, as my father shall specify.
His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater cousins. 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 rectify unto you. I have here a dish of dubs that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is— 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— One speak for both. What would you? Servius, sir. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. I know thee well. Thou hast obtained thy suit. Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day, and hath Preferred thee, if it be preferment to leave a rich jew's service to become the follower of so poor a gentleman.
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. 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. Father in. I cannot get a service, no. I have ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have a good fortune go to.
Here's a simple line of life. Here's a small trifle of wives. Alas! Fifteen wives is nothing. Eleven widders and nine maids is a simple coming in for one man, and then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril in 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.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestowed, return in haste, for I do feast to-night my best-esteemed acquaintance. Heidi, go. My best endeavors shall be done herein. Exit Leonardo. Enter Gertiano. Where is your maister? Yonder, sir, he walks. Signor Bassanio. Graciano. I have a suit to you. You have obtained it. You must not deny me. I must go with you to Belmont. Why, then thou must. But hear thee, Graciano. Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice. Parts that become thee happily enough, and in such eyes as ours appear not false. But where thou art not known, why, there they show something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain to allay with some cold drops of modesty thy sticking spirit, lest through thy wild behavior I be misconstrued in the place I go to, and lose my hopes.
Signior Bassanio, hear me. If I do not put on a sober habit, talk with respect, and swear by now and then. Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, nay more, while grace is saying, Hood mine eyes, dust with my head, and sigh and say, Amen. Use all the observance of civility, like one well studied in a sad Austen to please his grandam. Never trust me more. We shall see your bearing. Nay, but I part to-night. You shall not gauge me by what we do to-night. 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 you well. I have some business. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest. But we will visit you at supper-time.
Enter, Jessica and the Crown. 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 far thee well, there is a duquette for thee, and Lancelot 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 talk with thee. Adieu. Tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew. If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But adieu. Oh, these foolish drops do something drown, my manly spirit. Adieu. Farewell, good Lancelot. Crown. Alack, what heinous sin it is 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. Enter Gretiano, Lorenzo, Serrino, and Serrano. Nay. We will slink away in supper-time, disguise us at my lodging, and return all in an hour. We have not made good preparation. We have not spoke yet of torchbearers. Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly ordered, and better in my mind not undertook. Tis now but four o'clock. We have two hours to furnish us. Friend Lancelot, what's the news? Enter Lancelot with a letter. And it shall please you to break up this. It shall seem to signify. Mr. Brown. I know the hand. In faith tis a fair hand, and whiter than the paper it writ on is the fair hand that writ.
Love news in faith. Mr. Brown. By your leave, sir. Mr. Brown. Whither goest thou? Mr. Brown. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew. To sup tonight with my new master, the Christian. Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her. Speak it privately. Go, gentlemen. Exit, crown. Will you prepare you for this mask tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer. I'm Mary. I'll be gone about it straight. And so will I. Meet me and Gratiano. At Gratiano's lodging, some hour hence. "'Tis good we do so." Exeunt, Sereno and Serenio. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? 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 furnished with, what pages 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 Miss Fortune 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. Exeunt. Enter to, and he spent the lost crown. Well thou shalt see. Thy eye shall be thy judge, the difference of old Shylock and Bassania. What, Jessica? Thou shalt not gormandize as thou hast done with me. What, Jessica? And sleep and snore and render peril out. Why, Jessica, I say. Why, Jessica? Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. Your Worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding. Enter Jessica. Call you. What is your will? 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 iller brewing towards my rest, for I did dream of money-bags to-night. I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach. So do I his. 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 in the morning. Falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year in afternoon. What are the masks? Hear you me, Jessica? Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum and the vile squealing of the wry-necked pipe, clamber not you up to the casements then, nor thrust your head into the public street to gaze on Christian fools with varnished faces, but stop my houses' ears, I mean my casements.
Let not the sound of shallow poppery 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. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at Winder for all this. There will come a Christian by will be worth a Jewish eye. Exit. What, says that fool of Hagar's offspring? His words were farewell, mistress, nothing else. The patch is kind enough but a huge feeder. Snails slow in profit, but he sleeps by day more than the wildcat. 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 borrowed 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. EXIT. Farewell, and if my fortune be not crossed. I have a father, you a daughter lost. Exit. Enter Damascus, Gretiano, and Saleno. This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo desired us to make a stand. His hour is almost past. And it is Mervais he outdwells his hour, for lovers ever run before the clock. Oh, ten times faster Venus pigeons fly. To steal love's bonds new made, then they are wont to keep obliged faith unforfeited. That ever holds. Who rises from a feast with that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again his tedious measures with the unweighted fire, that he did pace them first?
All things that are, are with more spirit chaste than enjoyed. How, like a younger or a prodigal, the scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hudged and embraced by the strumpet wind. How like a prodigal does she return, with over-withered ribs and ragged sails, lean, rend, and beggared by the strumpet wind. Enter Lorenzo. Here comes Lorenzo. More of this hereafter. 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. Ah, who's withen? Jessica, above. Jessica, above. Who are you? Tell me for more certainty. Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
Lorenzo, and thy love? 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. 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, seeming thus transformed to a boy. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. 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. So you are, sweet, even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once. For the close knight doth play the runaway, and we are stayed for at Bassanio's feast. I will make fast the doors and gild myself with some more ducats, and be with you straight. Exit above. Now by my hood, a gentle and no Jew. 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 placid in my constant soul. Enter Jessica. What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Am masking mates by this time for us staying. Exit Jessica and Saloino. Enter Antonio. Who's there? Signor Antonio. Fie, fie, Graciano. Where are all the rest?
Tis nine o'clock. Our friends all stay for you. No mass tonight. The wind has come about. Bassanio presently will go aboard. I have sent twenty out to seek for you. I am glad on it. I desire no more delight than to be under sail and gone tonight. Excellent. Enter Portia with Morocco in both the trains. Go draw aside the curtains and discover the several caskets of his noble prince. Now, make your choice. The first, of gold, who 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 led, 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?
The one of them contains my picture prints. If you choose that, then I am yours with all. Some god direct my judgment. 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 has it all do it in hope of fair advantages. The golden mind stoops not to shows of dross. Then I'll 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 beest 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 strayed 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 thoroughfares 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 it like that lead contains her? To a damnation to think so base a thought. It were too gross to rib her serocloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she is immured, being ten times undervalued to tried gold? Oh, 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 in sculpt-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. There, take it, Prince. And if my form lie there, I am yours. Oh, 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 in fold.
Had you been as wise as bold, young in limbs, in judgment old, your answer had not been in scrolled. Fare you well, your suit is cold. Cold indeed, and labor lost. Then farewell heat, and welcome frost. Portia adieu. I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave, thus loses part. Exit with his train. Forage of Connets. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains. Go. Let all his complexion choose me so. Exeunt. Enter Saolino and Solanio. Wyman, I saw Bassiano on the sail. With him is Graciano gone along, and in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is not. The villain Jew without cries raised the Duke, who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. He comes too late. The ship was under sail. But there the Duke was given to understand that in a gondolo were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
Besides... Antonio certified the Duke that they were not with Bassiano in his ship. 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, stolen from me by my daughter, and jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stolen by my daughter. Justice, find the girl. She hath the stones upon her and the ducats. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, crying, His stones, his daughter, and his ducats. Let good Antonio, look he keep his day, or he shall pay for this.
Mary, well remembered. I reasoned 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 wished in silence that it were not his. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear, yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 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. Slub are not business for my sake, Bassanio, but stay the very riping of the time, and for the dew'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 ostens 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. 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. Do we so. Exceunt. Enter Nwesa and the servitude. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight. The Prince of Aragorn has taen his oath, and comes to his election presently. Enter Aragorn, Estreign, and Portia. Forish. Connets. Behold, there stand the casket's noble prince. If you choose that wherein I am contained, straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized. But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, you must be gone from hence immediately.
I am enjoined 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. To these injunctions everyone doth swear, that comes to hazard for my worthless self. And so I have addressed 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 fair ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Let me see. Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. What many men desire, that many may be meant by the full multitude that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, which pries not to the 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. Oh! That estates, degrees, and offices were not derived corruptly, and that clear honor 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 gleaned from the true seed of honor?
And how much honor picked from the chaff and ruin of the times to be new varnished? Well, but to my choice. Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. I will assume dessert. Give me a key for this, and instantly unlock my fortunes here. Two longer pause for that which you find there. What's here? A 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? To offend and judge are distinct officers, and of opposed nature. 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, silvered 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 keep my oath, patiently to bear my wreath. Exeunt, arrogant and trying. Thus as the candle singed the moth. Oh, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, they have the wisdom by their wits to lose. The ancient saying is no heresy. Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. Come, draw the curtain, Orissa.
Enter messenger. Where is my lady? Here. What word, my lord? Madam, there is alighted at your gate a young Venetian, one that comes before to signify the approaching of his lord. From whom he bringeth sensible regrets, to wit, besides commit and courteous breath, gifts of rich value, yet I have not seen, so likely, an ambassador of love. A day in April there came, so sweet, to show how costly summer was at hand, as this foresperer comes before his lord. No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard. Thou wilt say anon he is some kin of thee. Thou spent such a high day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa. For long I see quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly. BASSANIO. Lord love, if thy will it be.
EXCEANT. End of Acta Secundus.
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3 03 - Act 3 38:44
Actus Tertius. Enter Suanio and Salarino. Now, what news on the Rialto? Why, yet it lies there unchecked. That Antonio hath a ship of rich lading racked 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 gossips report be an honest woman of her word. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever napped Ginger, or made her neighbors 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—oh, that I had a title good enough to keep his name company! Come, the full stop!
Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. I would it might prove the end of his losses. Let me say Amen betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants? Enter Shylock. You knew none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight. That's certain. I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged, and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. She is damned for it. That's certain if the devil be her judge. My own flesh and blood to rebel. Out upon it old Carrion rebels it at these years. I say my daughter is my flesh and blood.
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? There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who does guess show his head on the Rialto, a beggar. That was used to come so smug up on the mart. Let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me you, sir, and let him look to his bond. He was wont to lend money for a Christian cat, see, let him look to his bond. Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh. What's that good for? To bait fish with all, if it will feed nothing else. It will feed my revenge.
He hath disgraced me and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's the reason? I am a Jew. Not a Jew eyes. Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, herped with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer? As a Christian is, if you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wronged a Christian, what is his humility?
Revenge. If a Christian wronged a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge? The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. Enter a man from Antonio. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and desires to speak with you both. We have been up and down to seek him. Enter Tubal. Here comes another of the tribe. A third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. Exeunt. Gentlemen. How now, Tubal? What news from Genoa hast thou found my daughter? I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. Why, there, there, there, there. A diamond gone cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfurt. The curse never fell upon our nation till now.
I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot and the jewels in her ear. Would she were her at my foot and the ducats in her coffin? No news of them why so, and I know not how much is spent in the search. Why thou, last upon last, the thief gone with so much and so much to find, the thief but no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill-luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders, no sighs but of my breathing, no tears but of my shedding." Yes. Other men have ill luck, too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa. What? What? What ill luck? Ill luck? Hathen Argosy cast away, coming from Tripoli's. I thank God. I thank God.
Is it true? Is it true? I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. I thank the good tubal. Good news. Good news. Ha, ha. Here in Genoa. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night, four score ducats. Thou stick'st a dagger in me. I shall never see my gold again. Four score ducats at a sitting. Four score ducats. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break. I am very glad of it. I'll plague him. I'll torture him. I am glad of it. One of them showed me a ring he had of your daughter for a monkey. Out upon her thou torturest me, too, while it was my turquoise. I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
But Antonio is certainly undone. Nay. That's true, that is very true. Go, Tubal. See me an opposite. Bespeak him a fortnight before I will have the heart of him if he forfeit. For were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal. And meet me at our synagogue. Go, good Tubal. At our synagogue.
Tubal. I pray you, Tarry. Pause a day or two before you hazard, for, in choosing wrong, I will lose your company. Therefore forbear a while. If something tells me, it is not love, I would not lose you. And you know yourself, hate counsels not in such a quality, but lest you should not understand me well, and yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought, I would detain you some month or two before you venture for me. I would teach you how to choose right. But I am then forsworn, so will I never be. So may you miss me. But if you do, you'll make me wish as sin that I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes. They have all locked me and divided me. One half of me is yours, the other half yours, mine own, I would say.
But if mine, then yours, and so all yours. Oh, these naughty times but bars between the owners and their rights. So, though yours, not yours, prove it so. Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but tis to piece time to eke it and to draw it out in length to stay you from election. Let me choose, for as I am, I live upon the rack. Upon the rack, Bassanio. Then confess what treason there is mingled with your love. None but that ugly treason of mistrust which makes me fear the enjoying of my love. There may as well be amity and life tween snow and fire as treason and my love. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, where men enforced do speak anything. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
Well then, confess and live. Confess and love had been the very sum of my confession. O happy torment, when my torturer doth teach me answers for deliverance. But let me to my fortune and the caskets. Away, then. I am locked in one of them. If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand aloof. Let music sound while he doth make his choice. Then. If he lose, he makes a swan-like end, fading in music, that the comparison may stand more proper. My eye shall be in the stream, and watery deathbed for him. He may win. And what is music then? Then music is even as the flourish, when true subjects bow to a newly-crowned monarch. Such it is are those dulcet sounds, in break of day that creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ears and summon him to marriage.
Now he goes. With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides, when he did redeem the virgin tribute Paid by howling Troy to the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice. The rest aloof are the Daedarian wives, With bleared visages, come forth to view the issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live, With much, much more dismay. I view the fight. Hear music, as on the walls to Passanio, Collins in the caskets to himself. How now is shared? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, with grazing dead and fancied eyes. In the cradle where it lies, let us all ring fancy's knell. I'll begin it. Ding-dong-bell. Ding-dong-bell. So may the outward shows be least themselves. The world is still deceived with ornament.
In law, what please so tainted and corrupt but, being seasoned with a gracious voice, obscures the show of evil. In religion, What damned error but some sober brow will bless it, and approve it with a text, hiding the grossness with fair ornament. There is no vice so simple but assumed some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false as stairs of sand, Where yet upon their chins the beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, who inward searched have livers white as milk, and these assume but valour's excrement to render them redoubted. Look on beauty, and you shall see tis purchased by the weight, which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it.
So are those crisped, snaky, golden locks, which make such wanton gambols with the wind, upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea. The beauteous scarf veiling an Indian beauty. In a word, the seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, hard food for Midas, I will none of thee, nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge, tween man and man, but thou, Thou meagre led, which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, and here choose I. Joy be the consequence. How the other passions fleet to the air, as doubtful thoughts in rash embraced despair, and shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy.
O love! Be moderate, ally thy ecstasy. In measure reign thy joy, scantness excess. I feel too much thy blessing. Make it less, for fear I suffite. What find I here? Fair, porcious counterfeit! What demigod hath come so near creation? Move these eyes. Or whether riding on the balls of mine Seem they in motion. Here are severed lips, parted with sugar breath. So sweet a bar should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs the painter plays the spider, And hath woven a golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes! How could he see to do them? Having made one, methinks it should have power to steal both his, and leave itself unfurnished. Yet look, how far the substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow in underprising it!
So far this shadow doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, the continent and summary of my fortune. You that choose not by the view, chance as fair and choose as true. Since this fortune falls to you, be content and seek no new. If you be well pleased with this, and hold your fortune for your bliss, turn to where your lady is, and claim her with a loving kiss. A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave. I come by note to give and to receive. Like one of two contending for a prize, that thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, hearing applause and universal shout. Gideon's spirit, still gazing in a doubt whether those peals of praise be his or no. So, thrice, fair lady, stand I, even so, as doubtful whether what I see be true.
Until confirmed, signed, ratified by you. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, such as I am. Though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish to wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, a thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich, that only to stand high in your account I might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends, exceed accounts. But the full sum of me is the sum of nothing, which, in terms of gross, is an unlessened girl, unschooled, unpractised. Happy in this. She is not yet so old, but she may learn. Happier than this. She is not bred so dull, but she can learn. Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit commits itself to yours, to be directed, as from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours, is now converted. But now I was the lord of this fair mansion, master of my servants, queen all myself. And even now, but now, this house, these servants, and this same myself are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring, which when you part from, lose or give away, let it presage the ruin of your love, and be my vantage to exclaim on you. Mr. Brown. Madam, you have bereft me of all words. Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, and there is such confusion in my powers as After some oration fairly spoke by a beloved prince, there doth appear among the buzzing-pleased multitude, where every something, being blent together, turns to a wild of nothing save of joy, expressed and not expressed.
But when this ring parts from this finger, then parts life from hence. Oh! Then be bold to say Bassanio's dead. My lord and lady, it is now our time that have stood by and seen our wishes prosper to cry, Good joy! Good joy, my lord and lady! My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish, for I am sure you can wish none from me. And when your honours mean to solemnize the bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, even at that time I may be married too. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. I thank your lordship. You have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours. You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid. You loved, I loved. For intermission no more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, and so did mine too, as the matter falls. For wooing here until I sweat again, and swearing till my very roof was dry, with oath of love, at last, if promised last, I got a promise of this fair one here, to have a love, provided that your fortune achieved her mistress. Is it true, Nerissa? Madam, it is so. So you stand pleased with all. And do you, Graciano, mean good faith? Yes, faith, my lord. Our feast shall be much honored in your marriage. We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. What, and stake down? No, we shall never win at that sport, and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infiddle. What, and my old Venetian friend, Salerio.
Enter, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio. Lorenzo and Salernio, welcome hither. If that the youth of my new interest here have power to bid you welcome, by your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, sweet Portia, welcome. Portia. So do I, my lord. They are entirely welcome. I thank your honour for my part, my lord. My purpose was not to have seen you here, but meeting with Salario by the way. He did entreat me past all saying nay to come with him along. I did, my lord, and I have reason for it. Signor Antonio commends him to you. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind, nor well unless in mind. His letter there will show you his estate.
Open the letter. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger, bid her welcome. Johans, Alerio, what's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success. We are the Jasons. We have won the fleece. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. There are some shrewd contents of yon same paper, that steals the color from Bassanio's cheeks. Some dear friend dead. Else nothing in the world could turn so much the constitution of any constant man. What? Worse and worse. With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, and I must freely have the half of anything that this same paper brings you. Oh, sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper.
Gentle lady, when I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins. I was a gentleman. And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, rating myself at nothing, you shall see how much I was a braggart. When I told you my state was nothing, I should have told you that I was worse than nothing, for indeed I have engaged myself to a dear friend, engaged my friend to his mere enemy, to feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, the paper as the body of my friend, and every word in it a gaping wound, issuing life-blood. But is it true, Solanio? Hath all his ventures failed? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England? From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?
And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch of merchant marring rocks? Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear that if he had the present money to discharge the dew, he would not take it. Never did I know a creature that did bear the shape of man so keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the duke at morning and at night, and doth impeach the freedom of the state if they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, the duke himself, and the magnificoes of greatest port, have all persuaded with him, but none can drive him from the envious plea of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. When I was with him, I have heard him swear, to Tubal and to Chas, his countrymen. That he would rather have Antonio's flesh than twenty times the value of the sum.
But he did owe him, and I know, my lord. If law, authority, and power deny not, it will go hard with poor Antonio. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, the best conditioned and unwearied spirit in doing courtesies. And one in whom the ancient Roman honour more appears than any that draws breath in Italy. What's some ozie to the Jew? For me, three thousand ducats. What? No more? Pay him six thousand and deface the bond. Double six thousand, then treble that, before a friend of this description should lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife. Then await a Venice to your friend. For never shall you lie by Portia's side with an unquiet soul.
You shall have gold to pay the petty debt twenty times over. When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself, meanwhile, will live as maids and widows. Come away, for you shall hence, upon your wedding day, bid your friend welcome. Show a merry cheer, since you are dear Bort. I will love you, dear, but let me hear the letter of your friend. Sweet Bassanio. My ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and since in paying it it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure. If your love do not persuade you to come, Let not my letter.
O love, dispatch your business and be gone. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste. But, till I come again, no bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, nor rest be interposed at Twixtus Twain. Exceunt. Enter the Chu, and Serenio, and Antonio, and the Chayla. Chayla, look to him, tell not me of mercy. This is the fool that lends out money gratis. Chela, look to him. Hear me, yes, good Shylock. I'll have my bond. Speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou callest me dog before thou hadst a cause, but since I am a dog, beware my fangs. The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, thou naughty jailer, that thou art so fond to come abroad with him at his request.
I pray thee, hear me speak. I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak. I'll have my bond, and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool to shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield to Christian intercessors. Follow not. I'll— Have no speaking. I will have my bond. Exit Two. It is the most impenetrable cure that ever kept with men. Let him alone. I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeketh my life, his reason well I know. I oft delivered from his forfeatures many that have at times made moan to me, and therefore he hates me. I am sure the Duke will never grant this forfeiture to hold. The Duke cannot deny the court of law, for the comidity that strangers have with us in Venice, if it be denied, will much impeach the justice of the State, since that the trade and profit of the city consists of all nations.
Therefore go. These griefers and losses have so baited me that I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh to-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, jailer, on. Pray God Bacinio come to see me pay his debt, and then I care not. Exeunt. Enter Portia, Nereza, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Aaron of Porteous. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, you have a noble and a true conceit of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, how true a gentleman you send relief, how dear a lover of my lord, your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work than customary bounty can enforce you. I never did repent for doing good, nor shall not now, for in comparison to do converse, and waste the time together.
Whose souls could bear the equal yoke of love, there must be needs like proportions of lineaments, of manners and of spirit, which makes me think that this Antonio, being the bosom lover of my lord, must needs be like my lord. If it be so, how little is the cost I have bestowed in purchasing the semblance of my soul out of the state of hellish cruelty. This comes too near the praising of myself, therefore no more of it. Hear other things. Lorenzo. I commit into your hands the husbandry, and manage of my house until my lord is returned. For mine own part, I have towards heaven breathed a secret vow to live in prayer and contemplation, only attended by Nerissa here, until her husband and my lord's return.
There is a monastery two miles off, and there we will abide. I do desire you will not deny these impostations, which my love and some necessity now lays upon you. Madam. With all my heart, I shall obey you in all fair commands. My people do already know my mind, and will acknowledge you and Jessica, in place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So farewell, till we meet again. Fair thoughts, and happy hours attend on you. I wish your ladyship all hearts content. I thank thee for your wish, and am well pleased to wish it back to you. Fare you well, Jessica. Accent. Now, Balthazar, as I have ever found thee honest true, so let me find thee still. Take this same letter, and use thou all the endeavour of a man, in speed to Padua.
See thou render this into my cousin's hand, Dr. Bellario, and, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee. Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed unto the Tranex, to the common ferry which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, but get thee gone. I shall be there before thee. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand that you yet know not of. We'll see our husbands before they think of us. Shall they see us? They shall, Nerissa, but in such a good habit that they will think we are accomplished with what we lack. I'll hold thee a wager. When we are both a countered like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, and wear my dagger in the braver grace, and speak between the change of man and boy with a reed voice.
And turn two mincing steps into a manly stride, And speak a phrase like a fine bragging youth, And tell quaint lies. How honourable ladies sought my love, Which, I denying, they fell sick and died. I could not do withal, And I'll repent and wish for that all that I had not killed them. And twenty more of these puny lies I'll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school at about twelve months. I have within my mind a thousand raw tricks of these bragging jacks, which I will practise. Why, shall we turn to men? Fie, what a question that, if thou wert near a lewd interpreter. But come, I'll tell thee my whole device when I am in my coach, which stays for us at the park gate. Therefore haste away, for we must measure twenty miles today.
Accent. Enter Crown and Jessica. Yes, truly. Faduccio. The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children. Therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always playing with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter. Therefore, be a good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. And what hope is that, I pray thee? Marry, that you may partly hope that your father got your knot. That you were not the Jews, daughter? That were a kind of bastard hope indeed. So the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. Truly, then, I fear you are damned both by father and mother. Thus when I shall sail your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother.
Well, you are gone both ways. I shall be saved by my husband. He hath made me a Christian. Truly the more blame he. We were Christians and now before, in as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs. If we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. Enter, Lorenzo. Lorenzo. I'll tell my husband, Lancelot, what you say. Here he comes. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Lancelot. If you thus get my wife into corners. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo. Lancelot and I are out. He tells me flatly there is no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter. And he says you are no good member of the Commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork.
I shall answer that better to the Commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly. The more is with child by you, Lancelot. It is much that the more should be more than reason, but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. How every fool can play upon the word, I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah. Bid them prepare for dinner. That is done, sir. They have all stomachs. Goodly lord. What a wood-snapper are you. Then bid them prepare dinner. That is done too, sir. Only cover is the word. Will you cover then, sir? Not so, sir, neither. I know my duty. Yet more quarrelling with occasion, wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant?
I pray thee understand, a plain man, in his plain meaning. Go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. For the table, sir, it shall be served in. For the meat, sir, it shall be covered. For your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. Exit Clown. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory an army of good words, and I do know a many fools that stand in better place, garnished like him. That for a tricksy word defy the matter. How, cheerest thou, Jessica, and now, good, sweet, say thy opinion. How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife? Passed all expressing, it is very meet.
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, for having such a blessing in his lady, he finds the joys of heaven here on earth. And if on earth he does not mean it, it is reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, and on the wager lay two earthly women, and Portia one, there must be something else. Pond with the other for the poor rude world, hath not her fellow? Even such a husband hast thou of me as she is for a wife. Nay, but ask my opinion to of that. I will anon. First let us go to dinner. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. No, pray thee, let it serve for table talk. Then, howsome ere thou speak'st, among other things, I shall digest it.
Well, I'll set you forth.
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4 04 - Act 4 26:49
Actus Voltus. Entity took the Veneericose, Antonio, Bassanio, and Gattiano. What is Antonio here? Ready, so please your grace. I am sorry for thee. Thou art come to answer a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch uncapable of pity, buoyed and empty from any dram of mercy. I have heard. Your grace hath taken great pains to qualify his rigorous course, but since 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 I am armed to suffer with the quietness of spirit, the very tyranny and rage of his. Go, one, and call the Jew into the court. He is ready at the door. He comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. Make room, and let him stand before our face.
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice to the last hour of act, and then, tis thought, thou'll show thy mercy, and remorse more strange than is thy strange apparent cruelty. And where thou now extract'st the penalty, which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, but, touched with human gentleness and love, forgive a moiety of the principle, glancing an eye of pity on his losses. That have of late, so huddled on his back, enow to press a royal merchant down and pluck commiseration of his state from brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, from stubborn turks and tartars never trained to offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose, and by our holy Sabbath have I sworn, 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 choose to have a weight of carrion flesh than to receive three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that, but say it is my humour. Is it answered? What if my house be troubled with a rat? And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats to have it baned. What, are you answered yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others, when the bagpipe sings of the nose, cannot contain their urine, for affection, masters of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.
Now, for your answer. As there is no firm reason to be rendered, why, he cannot abide a gaping pig, why, he, a harmless necessary cat, why, he, a woollen bagpipe, but of force must yield to such inevitable shame as to offend himself being offended. So can I give no reason, nor I will not, more than a lodged hate and a certain loathing I bear, Antonio. that I followed thus a losing suit against him. Are you answered? Mr. Brown. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, to excuse the current of thy cruelty. Mr. Brown. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. Mr. Brown. Do all men kill the things they do not love? Mr. Brown. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Mr. Brown. Every offence is not a hate at first.
What? Wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? I pray you think you question with a dew. You may as well go stand upon the beach, and bid the main flood bait his usual height. Or even as well use question with a wolf, why he hath made the yew bleat for the lamb. You may as well forbid the mountain pines to waggle their high tops, and to make no noise when they are fretted with the gusts of heaven. You may as well do anything most hard. and seek to soften that than which would harden his Jewish heart. Therefore I do beseech you, make no more offers. Use not farther means, but with all brief and plain convenience let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. For thy three thousand ducats, here is six.
If every ducat in six thousand ducats were in six parts, and every part a ducat I would not draw them. I would have my bond. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none? What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchased slave, which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, you use in abject and in slavish parts, because you bought them. Shall I say to you? Let them be free. Marry them to your heirs. Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds be made as soft as yours, and let their palates be seasoned with such viands. You will answer, the slaves are ours. So do I answer you. The pound of flesh which I demand of him is dearly bought. Tis mine. And I will have it.
If you deny me, vie upon your law. There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment. Answer, shall I have it? Upon my power I may dismiss this court, unless Bellario, a learned doctor, whom I have sent for to determine this, come here to-day. My lord, here stays without a messenger with letters from the doctor, new-come from Padua. Bring us the letter. Call the messenger. Good cheer, Antonio. What, man, courage yet? The Jews shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. I am tainted, weather of the flock, meetest for death. The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, than to lie still and write mine epitaph.
Enter, Nelisa, just like a guise clerk. Came you from Padua? From Bellario? From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. Why dost thou with thy knife so earnestly? To cut the forfeiture from that bankrape there. Not on thy soul, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, thou makest thy knife keen. But no metal can. No, not the hangman's axe bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. Oh, be thou damned inexacrable dog, and for thy life let justice be accused. Thou almost makes me waver in my faith to hold opinion with Pythagoras, that souls of animals infuse themselves into the trunks of men. Thy courish spirit govern the wolf, Who hanged for human slaughter, even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, and while thou lay'st in thy unhallowed dam, infused itself in thee, for thy desires are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous.
Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond. Thou but offendest thy lungs to speak so, lad. Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall to endless ruin. I stand here for law. This letter from Bellario doth commend a young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he? He attendeth here hard by, to know your answer, whether you'll admit him. With all my heart. Some three or four of you go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick. But in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome. His name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant.
We turned o'er many books together. He is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough command, comes with him at my importunity. To fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation. For I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.
You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes, and here I take it is the doctor come. Give me your hand. Come you from Old Bellario? I did, my lord. You are welcome. Take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference that holds this present question in the court? I am informed thoroughly of the case. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? Antonio and Old Shylock both stand forth. Is your name Shylock? Shylock is my name. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, yet in such rule that is Venetian law, cannot impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not? Aye, so he says. Do you confess the bond? I do. Then must the Jew be merciful? On what compulsion must I tell me that?
The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as a gentle rain from heaven on the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesseth him that gives it, and him that takes. Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes the throned monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power, the attributes of awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above the sceptered sway. It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute of God himself, and earthly power doth show likest gods when mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this, that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.
I have spoke thus much to mitigate the justice of thy plea, which, if thou follow, in strict court of Venice, Must needs give sentence against the merchant here. My deeds upon my head I create the law, the penalty and forfeit of my bond. Is he not able to discharge the money? Yes, here I tender it for him in the court. Yea, twice the sum. If that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, on forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear that malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, rest once the law to your authority, to do a great right, do a little wrong, and curb this cruel devil of his will. It must not be. There is no power in Venice can alter a decree established.
T'will be recorded for a precedent, and many error of the same example will rush into the state. It cannot be. A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel, O wise young judge, how do I honor thee? I pray you, let me look upon the bond. Here tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. Shylock, there's thrice the money offered thee. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. Why? This bond is forfeit, and lawfully by this the Jew may claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful. Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond. When it is paid according to the tenure, it doth appear you are a worthy judge. You know the law.
Your exposition hath been most sound. I charge you by the law. Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me. I stay here on my bond. Most heartily I do beseech to court to give a judgment. Why then, thus it is. You must prepare your bosom for the knife. O noble judge, O excellent young man. For the intent and purpose of the law have full relation to the penalty, which here appeareth due to the bond. "'Tis very true, O wise and upright Judge, how much more elder art thou than thy looks!" Therefore lay bare your bosom. "'Aye, his breast, so says the bond doth it not, noble Judge, nearest his heart. Those are the very words."
It is so. Is there a balance here to weigh the flesh? I have them ready. Have by some surgeon Shylock on your charge to stop his wounds. Lest he do so bleed to death. It is not nominated in the bond. It is not so expressed, but what of that? Twere good you to do so much for charity. I cannot find it. It is not in the bond. Come, merchant. Have you anything to say? But little, I am armed and well prepared. Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well. Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you. For herein fortune shows herself more kind than is her custom. It is still her use to let the wretched man outlive his wealth, to view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow an age of poverty, from which lingering penance of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honorable wife. Tell her the process of Antonio's end. Say how I loved you. Speak me fair in death. And when the tale is told, Bid her be judge, whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, and he repents not that he pays your debt, for if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. Antonio, I am married to a wife which is as dear to me as life itself, but life itself, my wife, and all the world are not with me esteemed above thy life. I would lose all. I sacrificed them all here to this devil to deliver you. Your wife would give little thanks to that if she were by to hear you make the offer. I have a wife whom I protest I love.
I would she were in heaven so she could entreat some power to change discouraged Jew. Tis well you offer it behind her back. The wish would make else an unquiet house. These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter. Would any of the stock of Barabbas have been a husband rather than a Christian? We trifle time, I pray thee, pursue sentence. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine. The court awards it, and the Lord doth give it. How most rightful, Judge. And you must cut this flesh away from his breast. The law allows it, and the court awards it. Most learned judge a sentence. Come, prepare. Tarry a little. There is something else. This bond doth give thee here no drop of blood. The words expressed are a pound of flesh.
Take then thy bond. Take thou thy pound of flesh. But in cutting it. If thou doth shed one drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods are, by the laws of Venice, confiscated unto the State of Venice. O upright Judge, marked you, O learned Judge. Is that the law? Thight shalt see the act, for as thou urgest justice, and assured thou shalt have justice more than thou desirest. O learned Judge. Mark Jew, a learned judge. I take this offer then. Pay the bond thrice, and let the Christian go. Here is the money. Soft, the Jew shall have all justice. Soft, no haste. He shall have nothing but the penalty. O Jew, an upright judge, a learned judge. Therefore prepare thee to cut the flesh, shed no blood, nor cut thou less nor more.
But just a pound of flesh. If thou cut'st more or less than a pound, be it but so much to make it light or heavy in substance, or the division of a twentieth part of one poor scruple, nay, if the scales do turn but in the estimation of a hair, thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. A second Daniel, a Daniel Jew, now in fiddle I have thee on the hip. Why doth the Jew pause? "'Tis thy forfeiture." Give me my principle, and let me go. I have it ready for thee. Here it is. He hath refused it in open court. He shall have merely justice and his bond. A Daniel still say I, a second Daniel. I thank ye Jew for teaching me that word. Shall I not have barely my principle? Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture.
"'Tis to be so taken at thy peril, Jew." Why then, the devil give him good of it, I'll stay no longer question. Tarry, Jew, the law hath yet no hold on thee. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, if it be proved against an alien, that by direct or indirect attempts to seek the life of any citizen, the party against which he does contrive shall seize one half of his goods. The other half comes to the privy coffer of the state. And the offender's life lies at the mercy of the Duke only, against all other voice. In which predicament I say thou stanced, for it appears, by manifest proceeding, that indirectly, and directly too, thou hath contrived against the very life of the defendant. Thou hath incurred the danger formerly by me rehearsed.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself, and yet thy wealth being forfeit to the state, thou hast not left the value of a court. Therefore thou must be hanged at the state's charge. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's. The other half comes to the general state, which humbleness may drive unto a fine. Aye, for the state, not for Antonio. Nay, take my life and all pardon not that you take my house, when you do take the prop that doth sustain my house, you take my life, when you do take the means whereby I live. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? A halter, gratis.
Nothing else for God's sake. So please my lord duke and all the court, to quit the fine for one half of his goods. I am content, so he will let me have the other half in use, to render it upon his death unto the gentleman that lately stole his daughter. Two things prouded more, that for this favour he presently become a Christian, the other that he does record a gift, here in the court of all he dies possessed, unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. He shall do this, or else I do recant the pardon that I late pronounced here. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say? I am content. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence. I am not well. Send the deed after me, and I will sign it.
Get thee gone, but do it. In Christning thou shalt have two godfathers. Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, to bring thee to the gallows, not to the font. Exit, Shylock. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon. I must away this night towards Padua, and it is meet I presently set forth. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, for, in my mind, you are much bound to him. Acceunt, Durgan is trying. Most worthy gentlemen, I and my friend have by your wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, in lieu whereof three thousand ducats. Due unto the Jew, we freely cope your courteous pains withal. And stand indebted over and above, in love and service to you evermore.
He is well paid that is well satisfied, and I delivering you am satisfied, and wherein do account myself paid. My mind hath never yet more mercenary, I pray you, know me when we meet again. I wish you well, and so I take my leave. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further. Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you, not to deny me and to pardon me. You press me far, so I will yield. Give me your gloves. I'll wear them for your sake. And for your love. I'll take this ring from you. Do not draw back your hand. I'll take no more, and you in love shall not deny me this. This ring, good sir? Alas, it is a trifle. I will not shame myself to give you this.
I will have nothing else but only this. And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. There's more depends on this than on the value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, and find it out by proclamation. Only for this. I pray you, pardon me. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg. Now methinks you teach me how a beggar shall be answered. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife, and when she put it on, she made me vow that I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. That excuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife is not a madwoman, I know how well I deserved the ring. She would not hold our enemy forever for giving it to me. Well, peace be with you.
Accent. Batea. Ennoesa. My lord, Bassanio, let him have the ring. Let his desirings and my love withal be valued against your wife's commandment. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him. Give him the ring. And bring him, if thou canst, unto Antonio's house. Away, make haste.
Come, you and I will thither presently, and in the morning early will we both fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. Exeunt. And patia and oissa. Enquire the duke's house out. Give him this deed, and let him sign it. We will away tonight, and be a day before our husbands. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter, Gratiano. Fair sir, you are well overtaken. My lord Bassanio, upon more advice, hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat your company at dinner. That cannot be. His ring I do accept most thankfully, and so I pray you tell him. Furthermore, I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house. That will I do. Sir, I would speak with you. I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
Thou mayest, I warrant, we shall have an old swearing, that they did give the rings away to men. But we'll out-face them, and out-swear them, too. Away! Make haste, thou knowest where I will tarry. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? Exit. End of Actors Quartals.
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5 05 - Act 5 18:18
Add the screen tools of the Berger Fairs by William Shakespeare. This is a LibreFox recording. All LibreFox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreFox.org. Etos Quintos. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. The moon shines bright in such a night as this, when the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees. And they did make no noise. In such a night Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls, and sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents where Cressyd lay that night. In such a night did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, and saw the lion's shadow e'er himself, and ran dismayed away. In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love to come again to Carthage.
In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs that did renew old Eason. In such a night did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, and with an unthrift love did run from Venice as far as Belmont, In such a night did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, stealing her soul with many vows of faith, and ne'er a true one. In such a night did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, slander her love, and he forgave it her. I would outnight you did no body came. But hark! I hear the footing of a man. Enter messenger. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? A friend. A friend? What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend. Stephano is my name, and I bring word, my mistress will before the break of day be here at Belmont.
She doth stray about by holy crosses where she kneels and prays for happy wedlock hours. Who comes with her? None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet returned? He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, and ceremoniously let us prepare some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Salah, Salah! Woo-ha-ho! Salah, Salah! Who calls? Salah! Did you see, Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo, Salah, Salah! Leave! "'Hollowing Man, here.' "'Sala! Where? Where?' "'Here.' "'Tell him there's a post come from my master with his horn full of good news. My master will be here a morning, sweet soul.' "'Let's in, and there expect their coming, and yet no matter. Why should we go in? My friend Stephen, signify, pray you, within the house. Your mistress is at hand.' And bring your music forth into the air. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep in our ears, soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica.
Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid. With patterns of bright gold. There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, but in his motion like an angel sings, still choiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls, but whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, Ho, and wake Diana with a hymn, with sweetest touches, pierce your mistress' ear, and draw her home with music. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Cry music. The reason is, your spirits are attentive, for do but note a wild and wanton herd. Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, which is the hot condition of their blood?
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, or any air of music touch their ears, you shall perceive them make a mutual stand, their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, but music, for time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. The motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. Enter Portilla and Melissa. That light we see burning in the hall. How far a little candle throws its beams.
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. So doth the greater glory dim the less. A substitute shines as brightly as the king unto the king be by. And then his state empties itself, as does inland brooks into the main waters. Music. Hark. Music. It is your music, madam, of the house. Nothing is good, I see, without respect. Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, when neither is attended. But I think the nightingale, if she should sing by day, when every goose is cackling, would be thought no better a musician than the wren. How many things by season seasoned are to their right praise in true perfection?
Peace, hell. The moon sleeps with Endymion, and would not be awaked. Music ceases. That is the voice, or I am much deceived, of Portia. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, by the bad voice. Dear lady, welcome home. We have been praying to our husband's health. Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they returned? Madam, they are not yet. But there is come a messenger before, to signify their coming. Go in, Nerissa. Give order to my servants that they take no note at all of our being absent hence. Nor you, Lorenzo. Jessica, nor you. Attack it sounds. Your husband is at hand. I hear his trumpet. We are no telltales, madam, fear you not. This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick.
It looks a little paler. Tis a day such as the day is. When the sun is hit. And the Bassanio, Antonio, Gretiano, and the followers. We should hold day with the Antipodes, if you would walk in absence of the sun. Let me give light, but let me not be light, for a light wife doth make a heavy husband, and never be Bassanio so for me. But God sought all. You are welcome home, my lord. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, to whom I am so infinitely bound. You should in all sense be much bound to him, for, as I hear, he was much bound for you. No more than I am well acquitted of. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words.
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. By yonder moon, I swear you do me wrong. In faith I gave it to the judges, clerk. Would ye were a gelt that had it for my part, since you do take it, love, so much at heart? A quarrel ho? Already? What is the matter? About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring that she did give me, whose posy was for all the world like Cutler's poetry upon a knife. Love me, and leave me not. What talk you of the posy or the value? You swore to me, when I did give it you, that you would wear it till your hour of death, and that it should lie with you in your grave, though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, you should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it to a judge's clerk.
But, well, I know, the clerk will ne'er wear Heron's face that had it. He will, and if he live to be a man. Aye, if a woman lived to be a man. Now by this hand I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrub boy, no higher than thyself, the judge's clerk, a prating boy that begged it as a fee. I could not for my heart deny it him. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, to part so slightly with your wife's first gift, a thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger, and so riveted in faith upon your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear to never part with it. And here he stands. I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it, nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth of the world masters.
Now, in faith, Cretanio, you give your wife too unkindly a cause of grief, and, twere me, I should be mad at it. Aside. Cretanio. Why, I were best to cut my left hand off. and swear I lost the ring defending it. My lord Bassanio gave his ring away unto the judge that begged it, and indeed deserved it too, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing, he begged mine, and neither man nor master would take aught but the two rings. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you received of me. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it. But Mr. Brown. You see my finger hath not the ring upon it. It is gone. Then so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne'er come into your bed until I see the ring.
Mr. Nor I in yours, till I again see mine. Mr. Brown. Sweet Portia, if you did know to whom I gave the ring, if you did know for whom I gave the ring, and— Would conceive for what I gave the ring, and how unwillingly I left the ring, when naught would be accepted but the ring, you would abate the strength of your displeasure. If you had known the virtue of the ring, or half her worth that gave the ring, or your own honour to contain the ring, you should not have been parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable? If you had pleased to defend it with any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty to urge the thing held as a ceremony, Narissa teaches me what to believe. I'll die for it, but some woman had the ring.
No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, no woman had it, but a civil doctor, which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring. The witch I did deny him, and suffered him to go displeased away, even he that had held up the very life of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforced to send it after him. I was beset with shame and courtesy. My honour would not let ingratitude so much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady, for by these blessed candles of the night, had you been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house, since he hath the jewel that I loved, and that which you did swear would keep for me.
I will become as liberal as you. I'll not deny him anything I have. No, Nor my body, nor my husband's bed. I know him I shall, and I am well sure of it. Lie not a knight from home. Watch me like Argus. If you do not, I'll be left alone. Now by thy honour, which I have my own, I'll have this doctor for my bedfellow. And I his clerk. Therefore be well advised how you do leave me to mine own protection. Well do you so. Let not me take him, then. For if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. Sir, grieve you not. You are welcome notwithstanding. Portia, forgive this enforced wrong, and in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, wherein I see myself.
Mark you but that. In both my eyes he doubly sees himself. In each eye one, swear by your double self, and there's an oath of credit. Nay, but hear me, pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. I once did lend my body for thy wealth, which but for him that had your husband's ring had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again. My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord will never more break faith advisedly. Then you shall be his surety. Gave him this, and bid him keep it better than the others. Hail, Lord Bassanio. Swear to keep this ring. By heaven! It is the same I gave the doctor. I had it off him. Pardon me, Bassanio, for by this ring the doctor lay with me.
And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, for that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk, in lieu of this, last night did lie with me. Why, this is like the mending of highways in summer, where the ways are fair enough. What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it? Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed. Here is a letter. Read it at your leisure. It comes from Padua, from Belerio. There you will find that Portia was the doctor, and Nerissa there her clerk. Lorenzo here shall witness I set forth as soon as you, and even but now returned. I have not yet entered my house. Antonio, you are welcome, and I have better news in store for you than you expect. Unseal this letter soon, and you shall find three of your Argosys are richly come to harbour suddenly.
You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced upon this letter. I am dumb. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold? Aye, but the clerk that never means to do it, unless he live until he be a man. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow. When I am absent— Then lie with my wife. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living, for here I read for certain that my ships are safely come to road. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk have some good comforts too for you. Aye, and I'll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, from the rich Jew, a special deed of gift. After his death, Of all he dies possessed of. Fair ladies, you dropped manor in the way of starved people.
It is almost morning, and yet I am sure you are not satisfied in the events at full. Let us go in, and charge us there upon intergetaries, and we will answer all things faithfully. Let it be so. The first interrogatory that my Nerissa shall be sworn on is Whether till the next night she had rather stay or go to bed, now being two hours to-day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark, till I were couching with the doctor's clerk. Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing so sore as keeping safe, Nervissa's Ring.