Part 124

SOLANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear, Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part, Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answered “Do not so, Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time, And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.” And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio’s hand, and so they parted.

SOLANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other.

SALARINO. Do we so.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

Enter Nerissa and a Servitor.

NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight. The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, And comes to his election presently.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, his train, and Portia.

PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince, If you choose that wherein I am contain’d, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d. But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately.

ARRAGON. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to anyone Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone.

PORTIA. To these injunctions everyone doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

ARRAGON. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” What many men desire! that “many” may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th’ interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house, Tell me once more what title thou dost bear. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare? How many be commanded that command? How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour? And how much honour Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish’d? Well, but to my choice. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

[_He opens the silver casket._]

PORTIA. Too long a pause for that which you find there.

ARRAGON. What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! “Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.” Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better?

PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures.

ARRAGON. What is here?

_The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow’s bliss. There be fools alive, I wis, Silver’d o’er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone; you are sped._

Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool’s head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth.

[_Exit Arragon with his train._]

PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Where is my lady?

PORTIA. Here. What would my lord?

MESSENGER. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th’ approaching of his lord, From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit (besides commends and courteous breath) Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

PORTIA. No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly.

NERISSA. Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be!

[_Exeunt._]

ACT III

SCENE I. Venice. A street.

Enter Solanio and Salarino.

SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto?

SALARINO. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.

SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!—

SALARINO. Come, the full stop.

SOLANIO. Ha, what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.

SALARINO. I would it might prove the end of his losses.

SOLANIO. Let me say “amen” betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

Enter Shylock.

How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants?

SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight.

SALARINO. That’s certain, I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.

SHYLOCK. She is damn’d for it.

SALARINO. That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge.

SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel!

SOLANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?

SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood.

SALARINO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory, more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?

SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto, a beggar that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian cur’sy; let him look to his bond.

SALARINO. Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh! What’s that good for?

SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac’d me and hind’red me half a million, laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt 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 wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong 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.

SERVANT. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.

SALARINO. We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter Tubal.

SOLANIO. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be match’d, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

[_Exeunt Solanio, Salarino and the Servant._]

SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter?

TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! 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 hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them? Why so? And I know not what’s spent in the search. Why, thou—loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o’ my shoulders, no sighs but o’ my breathing, no tears but o’ my shedding.

TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa—

SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck?

TUBAL. —hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis.

SHYLOCK. I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true?

TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack.

SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! Ha, ha, heard in Genoa?

TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats.

SHYLOCK. Thou stick’st a dagger in me. I shall never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats!

TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break.

SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it. I’ll plague him, I’ll torture him. I am glad of it.

TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. 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.

TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone.

SHYLOCK. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; 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.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa and all their trains.

PORTIA. 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 Puts 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 eche it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election.

BASSANIO. Let me choose, For as I am, I live upon the rack.

PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love.

BASSANIO. 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.

PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack Where men enforced do speak anything.

BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth.

PORTIA. Well then, confess and live.

BASSANIO. “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.

PORTIA. 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 wat’ry 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 th’ 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 engend’red 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._

BASSANIO. 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 threaten’st than dost promise aught, Thy palenness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I, joy be the consequence!

PORTIA. [_Aside._] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair, And shudd’ring 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.

BASSANIO. 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 t’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 to 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.

PORTIA. 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 something, 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’s. 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.

BASSANIO. 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!

NERISSA. 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!

GRATIANO. 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.

BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.

GRATIANO. 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.

PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa?

NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal.

BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord.

BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage.

GRATIANO. We’ll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.

NERISSA. What! and stake down?

GRATIANO. 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, Salerio!

Enter Lorenzo, Jessica and Salerio.

BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new int’rest 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.

LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here, But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along.

SALERIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you.

[_Gives Bassanio a letter._]

BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth.

SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind, Nor well, unless in mind. His letter there Will show you his estate.

[_Bassanio opens the letter._]

GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger, bid her welcome. Your hand, Salerio. 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.

SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper That steals 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.

BASSANIO. 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, Salerio? 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?

SALERIO. 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.