THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. William Shakespeare
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Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master
Jew’s?
LAUNCELOT. [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.
GOBBO.
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master
Jew’s?
LAUNCELOT. 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.
GOBBO. Be 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?
LAUNCELOT.
Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me
now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master
Launcelot?
GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son; his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.
LAUNCELOT.
Well, let his father be what ‘a will, we talk of young
Master Launcelot.
GOBBO.
Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir.
LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?
GOBBO.
Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership.
LAUNCELOT. 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.
GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?
GOBBO. 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?
LAUNCELOT.
Do you not know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
LAUNCELOT. 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 in the end truth will out.
GOBBO.
Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
LAUNCELOT. 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.
GOBBO.
I cannot think you are my son.
LAUNCELOT.
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.
GOBBO. 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 thill-horse has on his tail.
LAUNCELOT.
It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward;
I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face
when I last saw him.
GOBBO. Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ‘gree you now?
LAUNCELOT. 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, with and other Followers.]
BASSANIO. 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]
LAUNCELOT.
To him, father.
GOBBO.
God bless your worship!
BASSANIO.
Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me?
GOBBO.
Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy—
LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man, that would, sir,—as my father shall specify—
GOBBO.
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve—
LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify—
GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship’s reverence, are scarce cater-cousins—
LAUNCELOT. 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—
GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is—
LAUNCELOT. 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.
BASSANIO.
One speak for both. What would you?
LAUNCELOT.
Serve you, sir.
GOBBO.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
BASSANIO.
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.
LAUNCELOT.
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.
BASSANIO.
Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son.
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows’; see it done.
LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] 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; a’leven 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