The Merchant of Venice Act 1 Scene 1

In sooth I know not why I am so sad.

It wearies me, you say it wearies you.

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me

That I have much ado to know myself.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean,

There where your argosies with portly sail

(Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,

Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea)

Do overpeer the petty traffickers

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

The better part of my affections would

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,

Piring 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 docked in sand,

Vailing her high top lower than her ribs

To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

And see the holy edifice of stone

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,

Would scatter all her spices on the stream,

Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,

And, in a word, but even now worth this

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?

But tell not me: I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

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.

Why then you are in love.

Fie, 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 smile

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well.

We leave you now with better company.

I would have stayed till I had made you merry,

If worthier 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 th' occasion to depart.

Good morrow, my good lords.

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when?

You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?

We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

We two will leave you. But at dinner time

I pray you have in mind where we must meet.

I will not fail you.

You look not well, Signior Antonio.

You have too much respect upon the world.

They lose it that do buy it with much care.

Believe me, you are marvelously changed.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,

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 'tis my love that speaks):

There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond

And do a willful stillness entertain

With purpose to be dressed in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,

As who should say "I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark."

O my Antonio, I do know of these

That therefore only are reputed wise

For saying nothing, when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

I'll tell thee more of this another time.

But fish not with this melancholy bait

For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.—

Come, good Lorenzo.—Fare 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.

Well, keep me company but two years more,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Fare you well. I'll grow a talker for this gear.

Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable

In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

Is that anything now?

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Well, tell me now what lady is the same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

That you today promised to tell me of?

'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate

By something showing a more swelling port

Than my faint means would grant continuance.

Nor do I now make moan to be 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 gaged. 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 honor, 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 advisèd watch

To find the other forth; and by adventuring both

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof

Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much, and, like a willful youth,

That which I owe is lost. But if you please

To shoot another arrow that self way

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,

As I will watch the aim, or to find both

Or bring your latter hazard back again,

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

You know me well, and herein spend but time

To wind about my love with circumstance;

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

In making question of my uttermost

Than if you had made waste of all I have.

Then do but say to me what I should do

That in your knowledge may by me be done,

And I am prest unto it. Therefore speak.

In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages.

Her name is Portia, nothing 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

Renownèd suitors, and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece,

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,

And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio, had I but the means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift

That I should questionless be fortunate!

Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money nor commodity

To raise a present sum. Therefore go forth:

Try what my credit can in Venice do;

That shall be 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 of my trust, or for my sake.