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doubt

      Would make me sad.

       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 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.

       Ant.

      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.

       Sol.

      Why then you are in love.

       Ant.

      Fie, fie!

       Sol.

      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 that will evermore peep through their eyes,

      And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper;

      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.

       Sal.

      I would have stay’d till I had made you merry,

      If worthier friends had not prevented me.

       Ant.

      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.

       Bass.

      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.

       Exeunt Salerio and Solanio.

       Lor.

      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.

       Bass.

      I will not fail you.

       Gra.

      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.

       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,

      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 alablaster?

      Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundies

      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 willful 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 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 moe,

      Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

       Ant.

      Fare you well! I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

      

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