Merchant of Venice


SCENE I. Venice. A street



Now, what news on the Rialto?


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.


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


company! -


Come, the full stop.


Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a



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.

[Enter SHYLOCK.]

How now, Shylock! What news among the merchants?


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 may 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 my 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 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 courtesy; 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 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 villaiy you teach me

I will execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the


[Enter a Servant.]


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

match'd, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

[Exeunt SALANIO, SALARINO, and Servant.]


How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my



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 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 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?


- hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.


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


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


I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! ha, ha!

Where? in Genoa?


Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night,

fourscore ducats.


Thou stick'st a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold

again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore 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 that he had of your daughter

for a monkey.


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.


But Antonio is certainly undone.


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.


SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.



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 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 th' 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 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 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.


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 plainness moves me more than eloquence,

And here choose I: joy be the consequence!


[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!


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.


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.


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.


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 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.


Is this true, Nerissa?


Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.


And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?


Yes, faith, my lord.


Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.


We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand



What! and stake down?


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!



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.


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 Salanio 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. Signior Antonio

Commends him to you.

[Gives BASSANIO a letter]


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.


Nerissa, cheer yon 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.


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


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.


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?


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.


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.


Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?


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.


What sum owes he the Jew?


For me, three thousand ducats.


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 through 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.


'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 clear'd 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 all 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 interposer 'twixt us twain.


SCENE 3. Venice. A street



Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy;

This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

Gaoler, look to him.


Hear me yet, good Shylock.


I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond.

I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

Thou call'dst 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 gaoler, 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.



It is the most impenetrable cur

That ever kept with men.


Let him alone;

I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

He seeks my life; his reason well I know:

I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures

Many that have at times made moan to me;

Therefore he hates me.


I am sure the Duke

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.


The Duke cannot deny the course of law;

For the commodity that strangers have

With us in Venice, if it be denied,

'Twill much impeach the justice of the state,

Since that the trade and profit of the city

Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go;

These griefs and losses have so bated me

That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh

To-morrow to my bloody creditor.

Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come

To see me pay his debt, and then I care not.


SCENE 4. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.



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 companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,

There must be needs a like proportion

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

From out 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's return; for mine own part,

I have toward heaven breath'd 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

Not to deny this imposition,

The which my love and some necessity

Now lays upon you.


Madam, with all my heart

I shall obey you in an fair commands.


My people do already know my mind,

And will acknowledge you and Jessica

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

So fare you well till we shall meet again.


Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!


I wish your ladyship all heart's content.


I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd

To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica.


Now, Balthasar,

As I have ever found thee honest-true,

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,

And use thou all th' endeavour of a man

In speed to Padua; see thou render this

Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario;

And look what notes and garments he doth give thee,

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed

Unto the traject, 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 habit

That they shall think we are accomplished

With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,

And wear my dagger with 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 of frays

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. Then I'll repent,

And wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them.

And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,

That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school

About a twelvemonth. 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's that,

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!

But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device

When I am in my coach, which stays for us

At the park gate; and therefore haste away,

For we must measure twenty miles to-day.


SCENE 5. The same. A garden.



Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to

be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you.

I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of

the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are

damn'd. 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, you may partly hope that your father got you not,

that you are not the Jew's 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 damn'd both by father and

mother; thus when I shun Scylla, 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 to blame he; we were Christians enow

before, e'en 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.


I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes.

[Enter LORENZO.]


I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you

thus get my wife into corners.


Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are

out; he tells me flatly there's 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 Moor is with child

by you, Launcelot.


It is much that the Moor 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 wit-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.



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,

Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word

Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?


Past 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 do not merit it,

In 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

Pawn'd 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 too 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 howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things

I shall digest it.


Well, I'll set you forth.