The Merchant of Venice(威尼斯商人)

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

THE MERCHANT OF

VENICE

William Shakespeare

1597

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to

Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, " " " ANTONIO, a merchant of

Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia SOLANIO, friend to

Antonio and Bassanio SALERIO, " " " " " GRATIANO, " " " " "

LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew,

his friend LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD

GOBBO, father to Launcelot LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio

BALTHASAR, servant 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, and other Attendants

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

ACT I.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

SCENE I. Venice. A street

Enter ANTONIO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO

ANTONIO. 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. SALERIO. 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. SOLANIO.

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. SALERIO. My wind, cooling my broth,

Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great

might do at sea. I should not see the sandy 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 bechanc'd would make me sad? But tell not me; I know

Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. ANTONIO. 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. SOLANIO. Why then you

are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SOLANIO. 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 fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and

Lorenzo. Fare ye well; We leave you now with better company. SALERIO.

I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not

prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it

your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

SALERIO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors

both, when shall we laugh? Say when. You grow exceeding strange; must

it be so? SALERIO. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Exeunt

SALERIO and SOLANIO LORENZO. 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. BASSANIO. I will not fail you.

GRATIANO. 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 chang'd. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the

world, Gratiano- A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a

sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter let

old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart

cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm

within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and

creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio- I love

thee, and 'tis my love that speaks- There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a 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.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

LORENZO. 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.

GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not

know the sound of thine own tongue. ANTONIO. Fare you well; I'll grow

a talker for this gear. GRATIANO. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only

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

GRATIANO and LORENZO ANTONIO. Is that anything now?

BASSANIO. 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. ANTONIO. Well; tell me now

what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you

to-day promis'd to tell me of? BASSANIO. '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 abridg'd 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 gag'd. 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. ANTONIO. I

pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself

still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur'd My purse, my person, my

extremest means, Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. BASSANIO. 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. ANTONIO. 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

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest

unto it; therefore, speak. BASSANIO. 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 undervalu'd 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' strond, And many

Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a

rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I

should questionless be fortunate. ANTONIO. 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

SCENE II. Belmont. PORTIA'S house

Enter PORTIA with her waiting-woman, NERISSA

PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great

world. NERISSA. 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

come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good

sentences, and well pronounc'd. NERISSA. They would be better, if well

followed. PORTIA. 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 to 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

who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter

curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot

choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous,

and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry

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 you shall rightly love. But what

warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that

are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou

namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level

at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA.

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 afear'd my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.

NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing

but frown, as who should say 'An you will not have me, choose.' He hears

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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! NERISSA. How say you by the

French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. 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-cap'ring; 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.

NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of

England? PORTIA. 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 behaviour

everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA. 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 seal'd under for

another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of

Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. 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.

An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

NERISSA. 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. PORTIA. 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 anything, Nerissa,

ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the

having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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. PORTIA. 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. NERISSA. 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? PORTIA. Yes,

yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he call'd. NERISSA. True, madam;

he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best

deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him

worthy of thy praise.

Enter a SERVINGMAN

How now! what news? SERVINGMAN. 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. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good

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 gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

Exeunt

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THEMERCHANTOFVENICE1THEMERCHANTOFVENICEWilliamShakespeare1597THEMERCHANTOFVENICE2DRAMATISPERSONAETHEDUKEOFVENICETHEPRINCEOFMOROCCO,suitortoPortiaTHEPRINCEOFARRAGON,"""ANTONIO,amerchantofVeniceBASSANIO,hisfriend,suitortoPortiaSOLANIO,friendtoAntonioandBassanioSALERIO,"""""GRATIANO,"""""LORENZO,inlove...

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