ACT II

SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the , a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with and their train.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phœbus’ 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.

PORTIA.
In terms of choice I am not solely 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.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
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 he 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 rage,
And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.

PORTIA.
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.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

PORTIA.
First, forward to the temple. After dinner
Your hazard shall be made.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Good fortune then,
To make me blest or cursed’st among men!

[ ]

SCENE II. Venice. A street.

Enter , the clown, alone.

LAUNCELET.
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me “Gobbo, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says “No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” says the fiend, “away!” says the fiend. “For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me “My honest friend Launcelet, being an honest man’s son”—or rather an honest woman’s son, for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;—well, my conscience says “Launcelet, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will run.

Enter with a basket.

GOBBO.
Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew’s?

LAUNCELET.
[ ] 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?

LAUNCELET.
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 Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

LAUNCELET.
Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [ ] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet?

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.

LAUNCELET.
Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launcelet.

GOBBO.
Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir.

LAUNCELET.
But I pray you, , old man, , I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelet?

GOBBO.
Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership.

LAUNCELET.
, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, 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.

LAUNCELET.
[ ] 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?

LAUNCELET.
Do you not know me, father?

GOBBO.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.

LAUNCELET.
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 Launcelet my boy.

LAUNCELET.
Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

GOBBO.
I cannot think you are my son.

LAUNCELET.
I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, 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 Launcelet, 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 fill-horse has on his tail.

LAUNCELET.
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?

LAUNCELET.
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 with and a follower or two.

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.

[ ]

LAUNCELET.
To him, father.

GOBBO.
God bless your worship!

BASSANIO.
Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me?

GOBBO.
Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy.

LAUNCELET.
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.

LAUNCELET.
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.

LAUNCELET.
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—

LAUNCELET.
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?

LAUNCELET.
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.

LAUNCELET.
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. [ ] Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows’; see it done.

LAUNCELET.
Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my head! [ ] 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; eleven 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 a feather-bed; here are simple ’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.

[ ]

BASSANIO.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this.
These things being bought and orderly bestow’d,
Return in haste, for I do feast tonight
My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go.

LEONARDO.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter .

GRATIANO.
Where’s your master?

LEONARDO.
Yonder, sir, he walks.

[ ]

GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio!

BASSANIO.
Gratiano!

GRATIANO.
I have suit to you.

BASSANIO.
You have obtain’d it.

GRATIANO.
You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont.

BASSANIO.
Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano,
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice,
Parts that become thee happily enough,
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
But where thou art not known, why there they show
Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour
I be misconst’red in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.

GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio, hear me.
If I do not put on a sober habit,
Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say “amen”;
Use all the observance of civility
Like one well studied in a sad ostent
To please his grandam, never trust me more.

BASSANIO.
Well, we shall see your bearing.

GRATIANO.
Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me
By what we do tonight.

BASSANIO.
No, that were pity.
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
That purpose merriment. But fare you well,
I have some business.

GRATIANO.
And I must to Lorenzo and the rest,
But we will visit you at supper-time.

[ ]

SCENE III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house.

Enter and .

JESSICA.
I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so.
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee,
And, Launcelet, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest.
Give him this letter, do it secretly.
And so farewell. I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee.

LAUNCELET.
Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit. Adieu!

JESSICA.
Farewell, good Launcelet.

[ ]

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
To be ashamed to be my father’s child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

[ ]

SCENE IV. The same. A street.

Enter and .

LORENZO.
Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.

GRATIANO.
We have not made good preparation.

SALARINO.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.

SOLANIO.
’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,
And better in my mind not undertook.

LORENZO.
’Tis now but four o’clock, we have two hours
To furnish us.

Enter with a letter.

Friend Launcelet, what’s the news?

LAUNCELET.
And it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.

LORENZO.
I know the hand, in faith ’tis a fair hand,
And whiter than the paper it writ on
Is the fair hand that writ.

GRATIANO.
Love news, in faith.

LAUNCELET.
By your leave, sir.

LORENZO.
Whither goest thou?

LAUNCELET.
Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight with my new master the Christian.

LORENZO.
Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica
I will not fail her, speak it privately.
Go, gentlemen,

[ ]

Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.

SALARINO.
Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.

SOLANIO.
And so will I.

LORENZO.
Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

SALARINO.
’Tis good we do so.

[ ]

GRATIANO.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

LORENZO.
I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
How I shall take her from her father’s house,
What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with,
What page’s suit she hath in readiness.
If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake;
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest;
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

[ ]

SCENE V. The same. Before Shylock’s house.

Enter the Jew and his man that was the clown.

SHYLOCK.
Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.—
What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize
As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—
And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out.
Why, Jessica, I say!

LAUNCELET.
Why, Jessica!

SHYLOCK.
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

LAUNCELET.
Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding.

Enter .

JESSICA.
Call you? What is your will?

SHYLOCK.
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica.
There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love, they flatter me.
But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house. I am right loath to go;
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags tonight.

LAUNCELET.
I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach.

SHYLOCK.
So do I his.

LAUNCELET.
And they have conspired together. I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o’clock i’ th’ morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in th’ afternoon.

SHYLOCK.
What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica,
Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces,
But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements.
Let not the sound of shallow fopp’ry enter
My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear
I have no mind of feasting forth tonight.
But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah.
Say I will come.

LAUNCELET.
I will go before, sir.
Mistress, look out at window for all this.
There will come a Christian by
Will be worth a Jewess’ eye.

[ ]

SHYLOCK.
What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha?

JESSICA.
His words were “Farewell, mistress,” nothing else.

SHYLOCK.
The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me,
Therefore I part with him, and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in.
Perhaps I will return immediately:
Do as I bid you, shut doors after you,
“Fast bind, fast find.”
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[ ]

JESSICA.
Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[ ]

SCENE VI. The same.

Enter the masquers, and .

GRATIANO.
This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo
Desired us to make stand.

SALARINO.
His hour is almost past.

GRATIANO.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.

SALARINO.
O ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly
To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

GRATIANO.
That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d.
How like a younger or a prodigal
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth she return
With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Enter .

SALARINO.
Here comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter.

LORENZO.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode.
Not I but my affairs have made you wait.
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach.
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter above, in boy’s clothes.

JESSICA.
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.

[ ]

GRATIANO.
Now, by my hood, a gentle, 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 .

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

[ ]

Enter .

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.

[ ]

SCENE VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

Flourish of cornets. Enter with the and both 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
Spets 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 undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within. Deliver me the key.
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may.

PORTIA.
There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours.

[ ]

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.