READ STUDY GUIDE: Act I, scenes i–ii |
|
Act I, Scene i:
Venice. A street
Venice. A street
| [Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO] |
| 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, |
| 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 myself. |
| SALARINO: |
| Your mind is tossing on the ocean; |
| There where your argosies, with portly sail— |
| Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, |
| Or as it were the pageants of the sea— |
| Do overpeer the petty traffickers, |
| That curtsy to them, do them reverence, |
| As they fly by them with their woven wings. |
| SALANIO: |
| Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, |
| The better part of my affections would |
| Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still |
| Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, |
| Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads; |
| And every object that might make me fear |
| Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt |
| Would make me sad. |
| SALARINO: |
| 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 should think of shallows and of flats, |
| And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, |
| Vailing her high top lower than her ribs |
| To kiss her burial. Should I go to church |
| And see the holy edifice of stone, |
| And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, |
| Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, |
| Would scatter all her spices on the stream, |
| Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, |
| 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 sad? |
| But tell not me; I know Antonio |
| Is sad to think upon his merchandise. |
| ANTONIO: |
| 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 merchandise makes me not sad. |
| SALARINO: |
| Why, then you are in love. |
| ANTONIO: |
| Fie, fie! |
| SALARINO: |
| Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad |
| Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy |
| For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, |
| Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, |
| Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: |
| Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, |
| And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper; |
| And other of such vinegar aspect |
| That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile |
| Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. |
| [Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.] |
| SALANIO: |
| Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, |
| Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well; |
| We leave you now with better company. |
| SALARINO: |
| I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, |
| If worthier friends had not prevented me. |
| ANTONIO: |
| Your worth is very dear in my regard. |
| I take it your own business calls on you, |
| And you embrace th' occasion to depart. |
| SALARINO: |
| Good morrow, my good lords. |
| BASSANIO: |
| Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when. |
| You grow exceeding strange; must it be so? |
| SALARINO: |
| We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. |
| [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.] |
| LORENZO: |
| My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, |
| We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, |
| I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. |
| BASSANIO: |
| I will not fail you. |
| GRATIANO: |
| You look not well, Signior Antonio; |
| You have too much respect upon the world; |
| They lose it that do buy it with much care. |
| Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. |
| ANTONIO: |
| I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; |
| A stage, where every man must play a part, |
| And mine a sad one. |
| GRATIANO: |
| 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— |
| I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks— |
| There are a sort of men whose visages |
| Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, |
| And do 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; when, I am very sure, |
| If they should speak, would almost damn those ears |
| Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. |
| I'll tell thee more of this another time. |
| But fish not with this melancholy bait, |
| For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. |
| Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile; |
| I'll end my exhortation after dinner. |
| LORENZO: |
| Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. |
| I must be one of these same dumb wise men, |
| For Gratiano never lets me speak. |
| GRATIANO: |
| Well, keep me company but two years moe, |
| Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. |
| ANTONIO: |
| Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear. |
| GRATIANO: |
| Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable |
| In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. |
| [Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.] |
| ANTONIO: |
| Is that anything now? |
| BASSANIO: |
| 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. |
| ANTONIO: |
| 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? |
| BASSANIO: |
| '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 unburden all my plots and purposes |
| How to get clear of all the debts I owe. |
| ANTONIO: |
| I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; |
| And if it stand, as you yourself still do, |
| Within the eye of honour, be assur'd |
| My purse, my person, my extremest means, |
| Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. |
| BASSANIO: |
| 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 wilful 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. |
| ANTONIO: |
| 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. |
| BASSANIO: |
| 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 Colchos' 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. |
| ANTONIO: |
| 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] |
|
|
||||
|
