Salan. Why then you are in love. Ant. Fie, fie! Salan. Nor in love neither? Then let's say, you are sad, Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO. Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kins man, Gratiano, and Lorenzo: Fare you well; We leave you now with better company. Salar. I would have staid till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? You grow exceeding strange; Must it be so? Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you have found An tonio, We two will leave you: but, at dinner time, Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio; Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. Gra. Let me play the Fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; O, my Antonio, I do know of these, For saying nothing; who, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears, Come, good Lorenzo:-Fare ye well, a while; Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinnertime: I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. Gra. Well, keep my company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that any thing now? Bass. 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. Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? Bass. "Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; Bass. 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, And thankfully rest debtor for the first. Ant. 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: Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left, 5 Of wond'rous virtues; sometimes from her eyes 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 Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand, O my Antonio, had I but the means I have a mind presages me such thrift, That I should questionless be fortunate. Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea; Nor have I money, nor commodity To raise a present sum: therefore go forth, Try what my credit can in Venice do; |