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DUKE of Venice.
Morochius, a Moorish Prince,
Prince of Arragon,
Anthonio, the Merchant of Venice.
Baffanio, his Friend, in love with Portia.
Friends to Anthonio and Baffanio.
Lorenzo, in love with Jeffica.
Shylock, a Jew.
Tubal, a Jew, his Friend.
Launcelot, a Clown, Servant to the Jew.
Gobbo, an old Man, Father to Launcelot.
Portia, an Heiress of great Quality and Fortune.
Neriffa, Confident to Portia.
Jeffica, Daughter to Shylock.
Senators of Venice, Officers, Servants to Portia, and other
SCENE partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the Seat of Portia upon the Continent.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter Anthonio, Solarino, and Salanio.
ΑΝΤΗ Ο Ν Ι Ο.
N footh I know not why I am fo fad:
It wearies me; you fay it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn----
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know my self.
Sal. Your mind is toffing on the ocean.
There where your † Argofies with portly fail,
Like figniors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea,
Do over-peer the 'petty traffickers
That curtfie to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Sola. Believe me, Sir, had I fuch venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes aboard. I fhould be still
Plucking the grafs, to know were fits the wind,
Argofie, a Ship, from Argo.
Prying in maps for ports, and peers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me fad.
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 fhould think of fhallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,
To kifs her burial. Should I go to church
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me ftrait of dang❜rous rocks?
Which touching but my gentle veffel's fide,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my filks;
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 fad?
But tell not me, I know Anthonio
Is fad to think upon his merchandize.
Anth. 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 merchandize makes me not fad.
Sola. Why then you are in love.
Anth. Fie, fie.
Sola. Not in love neither! then let's fay you're fad,
Because you are not merry; 'twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap, and say you're merry,