shakespeare-merchant.trec.1

<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-0-0</DOCNO>
<title>	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE </title>

	DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The DUKE OF VENICE. (DUKE:)

The PRINCE OF		|
MOROCCO	(MOROCCO:)	|
		|  suitors to Portia.
The PRINCE OF		|
ARRAGON	(ARRAGON:)	|

ANTONIO	a merchant of Venice.

BASSANIO	his friend, suitor likewise to Portia.

SALANIO	|
	|
SALARINO	|
	|  friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
GRATIANO	|
	|
SALERIO	|

LORENZO	in love with Jessica.

SHYLOCK	a rich Jew.

TUBAL	a Jew, his friend.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO	the clown, servant to SHYLOCK. (LAUNCELOT:)

OLD GOBBO	father to Launcelot. (GOBBO:)

LEONARDO	servant to BASSANIO.

BALTHASAR	|
	|  servants to PORTIA.
STEPHANO	|

PORTIA	a rich heiress.

NERISSA	her waiting-maid.

JESSICA	daughter to SHYLOCK.

	Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
	Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants.
	(Servant:)
	(Clerk:)

SCENE	Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont,
	the seat of PORTIA, on the Continent.

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-I-I</DOCNO>
<title>ACT I

SCENE I	Venice. A street.</title>

	[Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	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,
	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.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	                  My wind cooling my broth
	Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
	What harm a wind too great at sea might do.
	I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
	But I should think of shallows and of flats,
	And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd 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.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Why, then you are in love.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Fie, fie!

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	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 bag-piper,
	And other of such vinegar aspect
	That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
	Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

	[Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO]

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
	Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:
	We leave you now with better company.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
	If worthier friends had not prevented me.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Your worth is very dear in my regard.
	I take it, your own business calls on you
	And you embrace the occasion to depart.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Good morrow, my good lords.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
	You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

	[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio]

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	I will not fail you.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	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 marvellously changed.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
	A stage where every man must play a part,
	And mine a sad one.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	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 it is 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 dress'd 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 ye well awhile:
	I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Well, keep me company but two years moe,
	Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
	In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

	[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO]

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Is that any thing now?

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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?

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	'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.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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 unlock'd to your occasions.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
	I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
	The self-same way with more advised 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 wilful 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.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	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
	Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks
	Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
	Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,
	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!

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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 rack'd, 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.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-I-II</DOCNO>
<title>ACT I

SCENE II: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.</title>

	[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of
	this great world.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	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 mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the
	mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but
	competency lives longer.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Good sentences and well pronounced.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	They would be better, if well followed.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	If to do were as easy as to know what were good to
	do, chapels had 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
	o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the
	youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the
	cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to
	choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may
	neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I
	dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed
	by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,
	Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	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 shall rightly love. But what
	warmth is there in your affection towards any of
	these princely suitors that are already come?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest
	them, I will describe them; and, according to my
	description, level at my affection.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but
	talk of his horse; and he makes it a great
	appropriation to his own good parts, that he can
	shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his
	mother played false with a smith.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	Then there is the County Palatine.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	He doth nothing but frown, as who should 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 his mouth
	than to either of these. God defend me from these
	two!

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.
	In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but,
	he! why, he hath a horse better than the
	Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than
	the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a
	throstle sing, he falls straight a 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 love me to madness, I
	shall never requite him.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron
	of England?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	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 that I have a poor pennyworth in the English.
	He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can
	converse with 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
	behavior every where.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	That he hath 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.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	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 worst, he is little better than a beast:
	and the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall
	make shift to go without him.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	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.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a
	deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket,
	for if the devil be within and that temptation
	without, I know he will choose it. I will do any
	thing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	You need not fear, lady, the having 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.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	If I live to be as old as Sibylla, 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
	are 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.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a
	Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither
	in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish
	eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of
	thy praise.

	[Enter a Serving-man]

	How now! what news?

Servant	The four strangers seek for 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 to-night.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a
	heart as I can 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 had
	rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come,
	Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
	Whiles we shut the gates
	upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-I-III</DOCNO>
<title>ACT I

SCENE III	Venice. A public place.</title>

	[Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK]

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Three thousand ducats; well.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Ay, sir, for three months.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	For three months; well.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Antonio shall become bound; well.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I
	know your answer?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Your answer to that.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Antonio is a good man.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	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
	hath an argosy 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.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Be assured you may.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured,
	I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	If it please you to dine with us.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Yes, to smell pork; to eat 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]

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	This is Signior Antonio.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	[Aside]  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 usance 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-won thrift,
	Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
	If I forgive him!

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	                  Shylock, do you hear?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	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?
	Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,
	Will furnish me. But soft! how many months
	Do you desire?

	[To ANTONIO]

	Rest you fair, good signior;
	Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow
	By taking nor by giving of excess,
	Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
	I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd
	How much ye would?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	                  Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	And for three months.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	I had forgot; three months; you told me so.
	Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;
	Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow
	Upon advantage.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	                  I do never use it.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	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; ay, he was the third--

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	And what of him? did he take interest?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	No, not take interest, not, as you would say,
	Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.
	When Laban and himself were compromised
	That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied
	Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,
	In the end of autumn turned to the rams,
	And, when the work of generation was
	Between these woolly breeders in the act,
	The skilful shepherd peel'd 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 eaning time
	Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
	This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:
	And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for;
	A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
	But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.
	Was this inserted to make interest good?
	Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:
	But note me, signior.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	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:
	O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.
	Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Signior Antonio, many a time and oft
	In the Rialto you have rated me
	About my moneys and my usances:
	Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
	For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
	You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
	And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
	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 moneys:' you say so;
	You, that did void your rheum upon my beard
	And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
	Over your threshold: moneys is your suit
	What should I say to you? Should I not say
	'Hath a dog money? is it possible
	A cur can 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 spit on me on Wednesday last;
	You spurn'd me such a day; another time
	You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies
	I'll lend you thus much moneys'?

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	I am as like to call thee so again,
	To spit 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 for barren metal of his friend?
	But lend it rather to thine enemy,
	Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face
	Exact the penalty.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	                  Why, look you, how you storm!
	I would be friends with you and have your love,
	Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,
	Supply your present wants and take no doit
	Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:
	This is kind I offer.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	This were kindness.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	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
	Express'd 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 pleaseth me.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond
	And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	You shall not seal to such a bond for me:
	I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Why, fear 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.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	O father Abram, 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 forfeiture?
	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, adieu;
	And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Yes Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
	Give him direction for this merry bond,
	And I will go and purse the ducats straight,
	See to my house, left in the fearful guard
	Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
	I will be with you.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Hie thee, gentle Jew.

	[Exit Shylock]

	The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Come on: in this there can be no dismay;
	My ships come home a month before the day.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-I</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE I	Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.</title>

	[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF MOROCCO
	and his train; PORTIA, NERISSA, and others
	attending]

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	Mislike me not for my complexion,
	The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
	To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.
	Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
	Where Phoebus' 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 fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear
	The best-regarded virgins of our clime
	Have loved it too: I would not change this hue,
	Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	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 comer I have look'd on yet
	For my affection.

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	                  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 Sophy and a Persian prince
	That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
	I would outstare 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.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	You must take your chance,
	And either not attempt to choose at all
	Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong
	Never to speak to lady afterward
	In way of marriage: therefore be advised.

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	First, forward to the temple: after dinner
	Your hazard shall be made.

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	Good fortune then!
	To make me blest or cursed'st among men.

	[Cornets, and exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-II</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE II	Venice. A street.</title>

	[Enter LAUNCELOT]

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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, Launcelot Gobbo, good
	Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot
	Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My
	conscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot;
	take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest
	Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy
	heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me
	pack: 'Via!' 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 Launcelot, being an honest
	man's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for,
	indeed, my father did something smack, something
	grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience
	says 'Launcelot, 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. Certainly the Jew is the very devil
	incarnal; 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 command; I will run.

	[Enter Old GOBBO, with a basket]

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way
	to master Jew's?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	[Aside]  O 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.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way
	to master Jew's?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but,
	at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at
	the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn
	down indirectly to the Jew's house.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can
	you tell me whether one Launcelot,
	that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

	[Aside]

	Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you
	of young Master Launcelot?

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of
	young Master Launcelot.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you,
	talk you of young Master Launcelot?

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master
	Launcelot, 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.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my
	age, my very prop.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or
	a prop? Do you know me, father?

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
	but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his
	soul, alive or dead?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Do you not know me, father?

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of
	the 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 at the length truth will out.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not
	Launcelot, my boy.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but
	give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy
	that was, your son that is, your child that shall
	be.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	I cannot think you are my son.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	I know not what I shall think of that: but I am
	Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your
	wife is my mother.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou
	be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
	Lord worshipped 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.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	It should 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.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy
	master agree? I have brought him a present. How
	'gree you now?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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. 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. O rare
	fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I
	am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

	[Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO and other followers]

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper
	be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See
	these letters delivered; put the liveries to making,
	and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

	[Exit a Servant]

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	To him, father.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	God bless your worship!

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that
	would, sir, as my father shall specify--

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew,
	and have a desire, as my father shall specify--

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	His master and he, saving your worship's reverence,
	are scarce cater-cousins--

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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 frutify unto you--

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon
	your worship, and my suit is--

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	One speak for both. What would you?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Serve you, sir.

<speaker>GOBBO</speaker>	That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
	Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
	And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment
	To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
	The follower of so poor a gentleman.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	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 good fortune. Go to,
	here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle
	of wives: alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven
	widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one
	man: and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be
	in peril of 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 of an eye.

	[Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo]

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:
	These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,
	Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
	My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.

<speaker>LEONARDO</speaker>	My best endeavours shall be done herein.

	[Enter GRATIANO]

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Where is your master?

<speaker>LEONARDO</speaker>	Yonder, sir, he walks.

	[Exit]

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Signior Bassanio!

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Gratiano!

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	I have a suit to you.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	You have obtain'd it.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;
	Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;
	Parts that become thee happily enough
	And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
	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 skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior
	I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
	And lose my hopes.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	                  Signior Bassanio, hear me:
	If I do not put on a sober habit,
	Talk with respect and swear but now and then,
	Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,
	Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
	Thus with my hat, and sigh and say 'amen,'
	Use all the observance of civility,
	Like one well studied in a sad ostent
	To please his grandam, never trust me more.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	Well, we shall see your bearing.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me
	By what we do to-night.

<speaker>BASSANIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:
	But we will visit you at supper-time.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-III</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE III	The same. A room in SHYLOCK'S house.</title>

	[Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT]

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	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 fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee:
	And, Launcelot, 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 in talk with thee.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful
	pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play
	the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But,
	adieu: these foolish drops do something drown my
	manly spirit: adieu.

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	Farewell, good Launcelot.

	[Exit Launcelot]

	Alack, what heinous sin is it 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.

	[Exit]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-IV</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE IV	The same. A street.</title>

	[Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
	Disguise us at my lodging and return,
	All in an hour.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	We have not made good preparation.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,
	And better in my mind not undertook.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours
	To furnish us.

	[Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter]

	Friend Launcelot, what's the news?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	An it shall please you to break up
	this, it shall seem to signify.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
	And whiter than the paper it writ on
	Is the fair hand that writ.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Love-news, in faith.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	By your leave, sir.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Whither goest thou?

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Marry, sir, to bid my old master the
	Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica
	I will not fail her; speak it privately.
	Go, gentlemen,

	[Exit Launcelot]

	Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?
	I am provided of a torch-bearer.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	And so will I.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	                  Meet me and Gratiano
	At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	'Tis good we do so.

	[Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO]

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	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 furnish'd with,
	What page's 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 misfortune 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]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-V</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE V	The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house.</title>

	[Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT]

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
	The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--
	What, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise,
	As thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!--
	And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;--
	Why, Jessica, I say!

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Why, Jessica!

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	Your worship was wont to tell me that
	I could do nothing without bidding.

	[Enter Jessica]

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	Call you? what is your will?

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	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 loath to go:
	There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
	For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect
	your reproach.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	So do I his.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	An they have conspired together, I will not say you
	shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not
	for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on
	Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning,
	falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four
	year, in the afternoon.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
	Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum
	And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,
	Clamber not you up to the casements then,
	Nor thrust your head into the public street
	To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,
	But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements:
	Let not the sound of shallow foppery 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.

<speaker>LAUNCELOT</speaker>	I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at
	window, for all this, There will come a Christian
	boy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.

	[Exit]

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	His words were 'Farewell mistress;' nothing else.

<speaker>SHYLOCK</speaker>	The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;
	Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
	More than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me;
	Therefore I part with him, and part with him
	To one that would have him help to waste
	His borrow'd 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]

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
	I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

	[Exit]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-VI</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE VI	The same.</title>

	[Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued]

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo
	Desired us to make stand.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	His hour is almost past.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
	For lovers ever run before the clock.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
	To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont
	To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
	With that keen appetite that he sits down?
	Where is the horse that doth untread again
	His tedious measures with the unbated fire
	That he did pace them first? All things that are,
	Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
	How like a younker or a prodigal
	The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
	Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!
	How like the prodigal doth she return,
	With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,
	Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.

	[Enter LORENZO]

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	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. Ho! who's within?

	[Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes]

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
	Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Lorenzo, and thy love.

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,
	For who love I so much? And now who knows
	But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	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
	To see me thus transformed to a boy.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	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.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	So are you, sweet,
	Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
	But come at once;
	For the close night doth play the runaway,
	And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.

<speaker>JESSICA</speaker>	I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
	With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

	[Exit above]

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.

<speaker>LORENZO</speaker>	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 placed in my constant soul.

	[Enter JESSICA, below]

	What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!
	Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

	[Exit with Jessica and Salarino]

	[Enter ANTONIO]

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Who's there?

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	Signior Antonio!

<speaker>ANTONIO</speaker>	Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
	'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you.
	No masque to-night: the wind is come about;
	Bassanio presently will go aboard:
	I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

<speaker>GRATIANO</speaker>	I am glad on't: I desire no more delight
	Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-VII</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE VII	Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.</title>

	[Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the
	PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Go draw aside the curtains and discover
	The several caskets to this noble prince.
	Now make your choice.

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	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 lead, 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?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	The one of them contains my picture, prince:
	If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	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 hazard all
	Do it in hope of fair advantages:
	A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
	I'll then 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 be'st 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 stray'd 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't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation
	To think so base a thought: it were too gross
	To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
	Or shall I think in silver she's immured,
	Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
	O 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 insculp'd 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!

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,
	Then I am yours.

	[He unlocks the golden casket]

<speaker>MOROCCO</speaker>	                  O hell! what have we here?
	A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
	There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.

	[Reads]

	All that glitters 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 enfold.
	Had you been as wise as bold,
	Young in limbs, in judgment old,
	Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
	Fare you well; your suit is cold.
	Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
	Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!
	Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart
	To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

	[Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
	Let all of his complexion choose me so.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-VIII</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE VIII	Venice. A street.</title>

	[Enter SALARINO and SALANIO]

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:
	With him is Gratiano gone along;
	And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke,
	Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	He came too late, the ship was under sail:
	But there the duke was given to understand
	That in a gondola were seen together
	Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:
	Besides, Antonio certified the duke
	They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	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.'

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
	Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
	Or he shall pay for this.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Marry, well remember'd.
	I reason'd 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 wish'd in silence that it were not his.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
	Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	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 answer'd, '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.

<speaker>SALANIO</speaker>	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.

<speaker>SALARINO</speaker>	Do we so.

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>
<DOC>
<DOCNO>SHK-MOV-II-IX</DOCNO>
<title>ACT II

SCENE IX	Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.</title>

	[Enter NERISSA with a Servitor]

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	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,
	PORTIA, and their trains]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:
	If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
	Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:
	But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
	You must be gone from hence immediately.

<speaker>ARRAGON</speaker>	I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:
	First, never to unfold to any one
	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.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	To these injunctions every one doth swear
	That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

<speaker>ARRAGON</speaker>	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 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.
	O, that estates, degrees and offices
	Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour
	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 glean'd
	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]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Too long a pause for that which you find there.

<speaker>ARRAGON</speaker>	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?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	To offend, and judge, are distinct offices
	And of opposed natures.

<speaker>ARRAGON</speaker>	What is here?

	[Reads]

	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.

	[Exeunt Arragon and train]

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
	O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
	They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	The ancient saying is no heresy,
	Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

	[Enter a Servant]

Servant	Where is my lady?

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	                  Here: what would my lord?

Servant	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 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.

<speaker>PORTIA</speaker>	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.

<speaker>NERISSA</speaker>	Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

	[Exeunt]

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


</DOC>

<DOC>
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</DOC>