Venice. A Street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.

Salar.

Antonio.

IN sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say, it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came
by it,

I am to learn.

Your mind is on the ocean; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

As they fly by them with their woven wings. Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, 'Tis not my merchandise that makes me sad.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.

Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman.

Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you've 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.

[Exeunt Salar. and Salan. Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio ; You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it, that do buy it with much càre. Ant. I hold the world but às the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine's 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 alabaster ?

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,-
There are a sort of men, whose visages

Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And they a wilful 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. Fare ye well, a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.
Gra. Thanks, 'faith; for silence is only com

mendable

In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gra. and Lor. Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
Of wondrous virtues: sometime from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages :
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued
To Cato's daughter, Brùtus' Portia.

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors: 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 fortune is at sea; Nor have I money, nor commodity

To raise a prèsent sùm: therefore go forth,
Try what my crèdit can in Venice do;

To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

[Exeunt.

Belmont.

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.

Portia.

Y my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean.

Por. If to dò 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. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband:— O me, the word choose! I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; 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. So the lottery that he devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, will be chosen rightly by one whom you shall truly love.-But what warmth is there in your affection towards àny of these princely suitors that are already come?

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

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

Por. Ay, that's a dòlt, indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse.

Ner. Then is there the count Palatine.

Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should say, An if you will not have me, choose: he hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear, he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's head with a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon ?

Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. But, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frown

ing than the count Palatine: he is every man in no man: if he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I should never requite him.

Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

Por. Very vilèly in the morning, when he is sober; and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk when he is bèst, he is a little worse than a man; and when he is wòrst, he is little better than a beast.

Ner. If he should choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you refuse to accept him.

Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket: for, if the devil be within, and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do àny thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a spùnge.

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat ?

Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

Ner. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

Por. I remember him well; and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave.