THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. William Shakespeare
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Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.
LORENZO.
Lorenzo, and thy love.
JESSICA.
Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,
For who love I so much? And now who knows
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
LORENZO.
Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
JESSICA.
Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
I am glad ‘tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham’d 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.
LORENZO.
Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
JESSICA.
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 obscur’d.
LORENZO.
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.
JESSICA.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.
[Exit above.]
GRATIANO.
Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.
LORENZO.
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 prov’d herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
[Enter JESSICA.]
What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.]
[Enter ANTONIO]
ANTONIO.
Who’s there?
GRATIANO.
Signior Antonio!
ANTONIO.
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
‘Tis nine o’clock; our friends all stay for you.
No masque tonight: the wind is come about;
Bassanio presently will go aboard:
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
GRATIANO.
I am glad on’t: I desire no more delight
Than to be under sail and gone tonight.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 7. Belmont. A room in PORTIA’s house.
[Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains.]
PORTIA.
Go draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.
Now make your choice.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
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?
PORTIA.
The one of them contains my picture, prince;
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
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 farther, but chose here?
Let’s see once more this saying grav’d 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 throughfares 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 immur’d,
Being ten times undervalu’d to tried gold?
O sinful thought!