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THE

MERCHANT OF VENICE.

A C T I.

S CE NE I.

A Street in Venice.
Enter Anthonio, Solarino, and Salanio.

ANTHONIO.
I Ne wealies 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.

Sal. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your * Argofies with portly Sail,
Like figniors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the Sea,
Do over-peer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Sola. 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 fits the wind;
Peering in maps for ports, and peers, and roads;
And every object, that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me sad.
* Argosy, a Ship from Argo.

Mr. Pope.

Sal.

Sal. 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 fandy hour-glofs run, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And see my wealthy Andrew dock’ 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 strait of dang’rous rocks? Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all the spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my filks ; 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, Anthonio Is fad to think

upon

his merchandize. Anth. 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 merchandize makes me not sad.

Sola. Why then you are in love.
Anth. Fie, fie!

Sola. Not in love neither! then let's say, you're sad, Because

you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap, and say, you're merry, Because you are not sad. * Now by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some ghat will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper; And others of such vinegar-aspect,

That

*

- Now by two-headed Janus,] Here Shakespear shews his Knowledge in the antique. By two-headed Janus is meant those antique bifrontine Heads, which generally represent a young and smiling

Face

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear, the jest be laughable.

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. Sal. Here comes Bassanio, your moft noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo : fare ye well; We leave ye now with better company;

Sola. I would have staid 'till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Anth. Your worth is very dear in my regard :
I take it, your own business calls on you,
And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

Sal. Good-morrow, my good lords.
Bas. Good Signiors both, when shall we laugh ?

say, when ?
You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?

Sal. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Sola. My lord Bassanio, since you've found Anthonio, We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

Bas. I will not fail you. [Exeunt Solar. and Sala.

Gra. You look not well, Signior Anthonio; 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.

Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage, where every man must play his part, And mine's a sad one.

Gra. 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,

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Face, together with an old and wrinkled one, being of Pan and Bacchus ; of Saturn and Apo!lo, &c. These are not uncommon in Cole dions of Antiques; and in the Books of the Antiquaries, as Monte 4 com, Spanheim, ốc.

Sit like his grandfire cut in Alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I'll tell thee what, Anthonio,
(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-ftillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest 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

Anthonio, I do know of those,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I'm 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's gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo; fare ye well a while ;
* I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. 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.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the found of thine own tongue.

Anth. Fare well; I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i'faith ; for filence is only com

mendable In a neats tongue dry'd, and a maid not vendible.

[Exeunt Gra. and Loren. Anth. Is that any thing now?

Bal. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice: his reasons are as

* I'll end my exhortation after dinner.] The Humour of this confift in its being an Allufion to the Pra&ice of the Puritan Preachers of those Times ; who being generally very long and tedious, were often forced to put of that part of their Sermon called the Exhortation till after Dinner.

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two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you fhall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Anth. 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 ?

Baj. 'Tis not unknown to you, Anthonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By shewing something 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
Is to come fairly off from the great debts,
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gaged: to you, Anthonio,
I owe the most in money, and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
T' unburthen all my plots and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Anth. I pray you, good Baffanio, let me know it;
And if it stand, as you yourself fill do,
Within the eye of honour; be affur'd,
My purse, my person, my extreamest means
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

Baf. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-fame flight The felf-fame way, with more advised watch, To find the other forih ; by ventring both, I oft found both. I urge this child-hood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a witless youth, That which I owe is loft; 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 reft debtor for the first. [time, Anth. You know me well; and herein spend but

To

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