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i’ faith, for silence is only commendable

      In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

       Exeunt [Gratiano and Lorenzo].

      Ant. It 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 the 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,

      How much I have disabled mine estate,

      By something showing 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 care

      Is to come fairly off from the great debts

      Wherein my time something too prodigal

      Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio,

      I owe the most in money and in love,

      And from your love I have a warranty

      To unburthen all my plots and purposes

      How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

       Ant.

      I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it,

      And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

      Within the eye of honor, be assur’d

      My purse, my person, my extremest means,

      Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.

       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

      To find the other forth, and by adventuring both

      I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,

      Because what follows is pure innocence.

      I owe you much, and like a willful youth,

      That which I owe is lost, 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 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.

      Then do but say to me what I should do

      That in your knowledge may by me be done,

      And I am prest unto it; therefore speak.

       Bass.

      In Belmont is a lady richly left,

      And she is fair and, fairer than that word,

      Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes

      I did receive fair speechless messages.

      Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu’d

      To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia.

      Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,

      For the four winds blow in from every coast

      Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks

      Hang on her temples like a golden fleece,

      Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchis’ strond,

      And many Jasons come in quest of her.

      O my Antonio, had I but the means

      To hold a rival place with one of them,

      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,

      Neither have I money nor commodity

      To raise a present sum; therefore go forth,

      Try what my credit can in Venice do.

      That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost,

      To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

      Go presently inquire, and so will I,

      Where money is, and I no question make

      To have it of my trust, or for my sake.

       Exeunt.

       ¶

[Scene II]

       Enter Portia with her waiting-woman, Nerissa.

      Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world.

      Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

      Por. Good sentences, and well pronounc’d.

      Ner. They would be better if well follow’d.

      Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree—such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word choose! I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb’d by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?

      Ner. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott’ry that he hath devis’d in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

      Por. I pray thee over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description level at my affection.

      Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

      Por.

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