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I offer.

       Bass.

      This were kindness.

       Shy.

      This kindness will I show.

      Go with me to a notary, seal me there

      Your single bond; and in a merry sport

      If you repay me not on such a day,

      In such a place, such sum or sums as are

      Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit

      Be nominated for an equal pound

      Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

      In what part of your body pleaseth me.

       Ant.

      Content, in faith, I’ll seal to such a bond,

      And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

       Bass.

      You shall not seal to such a bond for me,

      I’ll rather dwell in my necessity.

       Ant.

      Why, fear not, man, I will not forfeit it.

      Within these two months, that’s a month before

      This bond expires, I do expect return

      Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

       Shy.

      O father Abram, what these Christians are,

      Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect

      The thoughts of others! Pray you tell me this:

      If he should break his day, what should I gain

      By the exaction of the forfeiture?

      A pound of man’s flesh taken from a man

      Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

      As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,

      To buy his favor, I extend this friendship.

      If he will take it, so, if not, adieu;

      And for my love I pray you wrong me not.

       Ant.

      Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

       Shy.

      Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s;

      Give him direction for this merry bond,

      And I will go and purse the ducats straight,

      See to my house, left in the fearful guard

      Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

      I’ll be with you.

       Exit.

       Ant.

      Hie thee, gentle Jew.

      The Hebrew will turn Christian, he grows kind.

       Bass.

      I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.

       Ant.

      Come on, in this there can be no dismay,

      My ships come home a month before the day.

       Exeunt.

       ¶

      ACT II

      [Scene I]

       [Flourish cornets.] Enter [the Prince of] Morocco, a tawny Moor, all in white, and three or four Followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa, and their Train.

       Mor.

      Mislike me not for my complexion,

      The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun,

      To whom I am a neighbor and near bred.

      Bring me the fairest creature northward born,

      Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,

      And let us make incision for your love,

      To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

      I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine

      Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love, I swear

      The best-regarded virgins of our clime

      Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue,

      Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

       Por.

      In terms of choice I am not soly led

      By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;

      Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny

      Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.

      But if my father had not scanted me,

      And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself

      His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

      Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair

      As any comer I have look’d on yet

      For my affection.

       Mor.

      Even for that I thank you;

      Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets

      To try my fortune. By this scimitar

      That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince

      That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,

      I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look,

      Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,

      Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

      Yea, mock the lion when ’a roars for prey,

      To win [thee], lady. But alas the while!

      If Hercules and Lichas play at dice

      Which is the better man, the greater throw

      May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

      So is Alcides beaten by his [page],

      And so may I, blind fortune leading me,

      Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

      And die with grieving.

       Por.

      You must take your chance,

      And either not attempt to choose at all,

      Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong

      Never to speak to lady afterward

      In way of marriage; therefore be advis’d.

       Mor.

      Nor will not. Come bring me unto my chance.

       Por.

      First, forward to the temple; after dinner

      Your hazard shall be made.

       Mor.

      Good fortune then!

      To

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