Belmont. A Room in PORTIA'S House. |
|
Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants. |
Por. I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two |
Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, |
I lose your company: therefore, forbear a while. |
There's something tells me, but 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 here some month or two |
Before you venture for me. I could teach you |
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; |
So will I never be: so may you miss me; |
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, |
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, |
They have o'erlook'd 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. O! these naughty times |
Put bars between the owners and their rights; |
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, |
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. |
I speak too long; but 'tis to peise the time, |
To eke it and to draw it out in length, |
To stay you from election. |
Bass. Let me choose; |
For as I am, I live upon the rack. |
Por. Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess |
What treason there is mingled with your love. |
Bass. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, |
Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love: |
There may as well be amity and life |
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. |
Por. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, |
Where men enforced do speak anything. |
Bass. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. |
Por. Well then, confess, and live. |
Bass. '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. |
Por. Away then! I am lock'd in one of them: |
If you do love me, you will find me out. |
Nerissa and the rest, stand all 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 the stream |
And watery death-bed for him. He may win; |
And what is music then? then music is |
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow |
To a new-crowned monarch: such it is |
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day |
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, |
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 Dardanian 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 than thou that mak'st the fray. [A Song, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself. | Tell me where is fancy bred, |
| Or in the heart or in the head? |
| How begot, how nourished? |
| Reply, reply. |
| |
| It is engender'd in the eyes, |
| With gazing fed; and fancy dies |
| In the cradle where it lies. |
| Let us all ring fancy's knell: |
| I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell. |
| |
| All. Ding, dong, bell. |
|
Bass. So may the outward shows be least themselves: |
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. |
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt |
But, being season'd 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 assumes |
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. |
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false |
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins |
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, |
Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk; |
And these assume but valour's excrement |
To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, |
And you shall see 'tis purchas'd 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 lead, |
Which rather threat'nest than dost promise aught, |
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, |
And here choose I: joy be the consequence! |
Por. [Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air, |
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, |
And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy. |
O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy; |
In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess; |
I feel too much thy blessing; make it less, |
For fear I surfeit! |
Bass. What find I here? [Opening the leaden casket. |
Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god |
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? |
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, |
Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd 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 unfurnish'd: yet look, how far |
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow |
In underprizing 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 pleas'd with this |
| And hold your fortune for your bliss, |
| Turn you where your lady is |
| And claim her with a loving kiss. |
|
A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; [Kissing her. |
I come by note, to give and to receive. |
Like one of two contending in a prize, |
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, |
Hearing applause and universal shout, |
Giddy in 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 confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. |
Por. 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 virtues, beauties, livings, friends, |
Exceed account: but the full sum of me |
Is sum of nothing; which, to term in gross, |
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; |
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 o'er 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. |
Bass. 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, |
Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring |
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: |
O! then be bold to say Bassanio's dead. |
Ner. 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! |
Gra. 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. |
Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. |
Gra. 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 lov'd, I lov'd 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 oaths of love, at last, if promise last, |
I got a promise of this fair one here |
To have her love, provided that your fortune |
Achiev'd her mistress. |
Por. Is this true, Nerissa? |
Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. |
Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? |
Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. |
Bass. Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage. |
Gra. We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. |
Ner. What! and stake down? |
Gra. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down. |
But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? |
What! and my old Venetian friend, Salanio? |
|
Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALANIO. |
Bass. Lorenzo, and Salanio, 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. |
Por. So do I, my lord: |
They are entirely welcome. |
Lor. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, |
My purpose was not to have seen you here; |
But meeting with Salanio by the way, |
He did entreat me, past all saying nay, |
To come with him along. |
Salan. I did, my lord, |
And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio |
Commends him to you. [Gives BASSANIO a letter. |
Bass. Ere I ope his letter, |
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. |
Salan. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; |
Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there |
Will show you his estate. |
Gra. Nerissa, cheer you stranger; bid her welcome. |
Your hand, Salanio. 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. |
Salan. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. |
Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper, |
That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek: |
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. |
Bass. O sweet Portia! |
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st 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 then have told you |
That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, |
I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, |
Engag'd 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, Salanio? |
Hath all his ventures fail'd? 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? |
Salan. Not one, my lord. |
Besides, it should appear, that if he had |
The present money to discharge the Jew, |
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. |
Jes. When I was with him, I have heard him swear |
To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, |
That he would rather have Antonio's flesh |
Than twenty times the value of the sum |
That he did owe him; and I know, my lord, |
If law, authority, and power deny not, |
It will go hard with poor Antonio. |
Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? |
Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, |
The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit |
In doing courtesies, and one in whom |
The ancient Roman honour more appears |
Than any that draws breath in Italy. |
Por. What sum owes he the Jew? |
Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. |
Por. What, no more? |
Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; |
Double six thousand, and then treble that, |
Before a friend of this description |
Shall lose a hair thorough Bassanio's fault. |
First go with me to church and call me wife, |
And then away to 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 meantime, |
Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! |
For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. |
Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; |
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. |
But let me hear the letter of your friend. |
Bass. | 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. |
|
Por. O love, dispatch all business, and be gone! |
Bass. 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 interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt. |
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