( LIBRARY 1 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 CAUFO 'NIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
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 3(a5c}ilt jJntkcr^^nns.
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SAN DIEGO 
 
 LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA 

 
 ' Fast binrl, fist find; 
 A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. 
 
 '^^^;^^^'''- 
 
 AS PERFORMED BY
 
 THE 
 
 MEECHANT OF VENICE 
 
 AS PRODUCED AT THE 
 
 WINTER GARDEN THEATRE OF NEW YORK, 
 
 JANUARY, 1867, 
 
 BY 
 
 ED^v\^I]Sr BOOTH. 
 
 NEW ADAPTATION TO THE STAGE. 
 
 NOTES, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED, AND INTRODUCTORY ARTICLES 
 
 BY HENRY L. HINTOJST. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PRINTED BY C. A. ALYORD, 
 
 15 VANDEWATER STREET. 
 1867.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the ycnr 1SG7, 
 
 By EDWIN BOOTH, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of tlio United States T"r tho 
 
 Southern District of New York.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFOR 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 USTTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Merchant of Venice was the first of those greater dramas of Shakespeare 
 which were written in what has been termed the middle period of the poet's career. 
 The first edition of the play (Ileyes's Quarto) appeared in 1600; the second edition 
 (Roberts's Quarto) was printed later in the same year; the next formed a part of the 
 folio of 1623. 
 
 The materials from which Shakespeare prepared the plot, or, more properly 
 speaking, the plots, of this play, seem to have been derived from various sources. 
 But they receive all their interest from the heightening touch of the poetic artist. 
 Mr. White, the Shakespeare commentator, from whose text the present acting copy 
 has been prepared, remarks on this subject with interest: — 
 
 " We find, then, that the story of this comedy, even to its episodic part and its 
 minutest incidents, had been told again and again long before Shakespeare was born, — 
 that even certain expressions in it occur in the works of preceding authors — in Gio- 
 vanni Fiorentino's version of the story of the Bond, in the story of the Caskets, 
 as told in the Gesta Romanorum, in the Ballad of Gernutus, and in Massuccio di 
 Salerno's novel about the girl who eloped from and robbed her miserly father, — and 
 that it is more than probable that even the combination of the first two of these had 
 been made before The Merchant of Venice was written. What then remains to 
 Shakespeare ? and what is there to show that he is not a plagiarist ? Every thing 
 that makes The Merchant of Venice what it is. The people are puppets, and the 
 incidents are all in these old stories. They are mere bundles of barren sticks that 
 the poet's touch causes to bloom like Aaron's rod : they are heaps of drv bones 
 till he clothes them with liuman flesh and breathes into them the breath of life. 
 Antonio, grave, pensive, prudent save in his devotion to his young kinsman, as a 
 Christian hating tlie Jew, as a royal merchant despising the usurer ; Bassanio, lavish 
 yet provident, a generous gentleman although a fortune-seeker, wise, although a gay 
 gallant, and manly though dependent; Gratiano, who unites the not too common 
 virtues of thorough good nature and unselfishness with the sometimes not imservice- 
 able fault of talking for talk's sake; Shylock, crafty and cruel, whose revenge is as 
 mean as it is fierce and furious, whose abuse never rises to invective, or his anger 
 into wrath, and who has yet some dignity of port as the avenger of a nation's wrongs, 
 some claim upon our sympathy as a father outraged by his only child; and Portia,
 
 () TNTRODFCTTON. 
 
 matcliless impersonation of that rare woman who is gifted even more in intellect than 
 loveliness, and who yet stops gracefully short of the offence of intellectuality ; — these, 
 not to notice minor characters no less perfectly organized or completely developed 
 after their kind, — those, and the poetry which is their atmosphere, and through which 
 they beam upon us, all radiant in its golden light, are Shakespeare's only ; and 
 these it is, and not the incidents of old and, but for those, forgotten tales, that 
 make The Merchant of Venice a priceless and imperishable dower to the queenly 
 city that sits enthroned upon the sea ; — a dower of romance more bewitching than 
 that of her moonlit waters and beauty-laden balconies, of adornment more splendid 
 than that of her pictured palaces, of human interest more enduring than that of her 
 blood-stained annals, more touching even than the sight of her faded grandeur." 
 
 This play was one of those of our author's productions which were severely 
 handled by the " improvers " of the latter part of the seventeenth century. Indeed, 
 it was not until Macklin restored the original text, in 1741, tliat the presumptuous 
 "improvements" of this play were banished from the stage. Macklin's adaptation is ■ 
 the one familiar to the theatre of to-day. 
 
 Some may ask : Why make an adaptation at all ? why not give the play as 
 Shakespeare composed it? Such should remember, that Shakespeare wrote in a 
 primitive day of stage machinery. His auditors did not demand completeness in 
 scenic effects, properties, and costumes, as do those of our time. A compliance 
 with these modern demands makes necessary a transposition of scenes. Still, some 
 will insist, why so much curtailment — such as, in the present instance, that of the 
 whole of the fifth act? The only defence we can offer in this and other cases of 
 less moment, which do not necessarily arise from the introduction of elaborate 
 machinery, is, that our modern audiences rule it thus — they do not admit with 
 patience scenes which, though developing delicate delineations of character, do not 
 help on very notably the plot of the piece. Thus, in this particular play, the plot is 
 consummated in its chief features with the fourth act ; and the audience, therefore, 
 immediately jumps to its feet, without waiting to hear out the concluding division 
 of the play, which so exquisitely rounds off and harmonizes the whole production. 
 AVhile it is admitted that the stage should lead the way, and educate the people in 
 matters of taste, still, this is true only to the extent of practicability. The stage can 
 only keep a certain distance in the van of the people ; it must give heed to the first 
 law of nature — self-preservation. 
 
 Of the performance of this play prior to the restoration of the monarchy, there 
 appear to be no detailed accounts. Richard Burbagc, one of the company of which 
 Shakespeare was a member, was the original representative of Shylock. He is 
 spoken of as playing the part in a red beard and wig, a garb adopted, no doubt, to 
 make him the more odious, and to suit the popular appetite of the time. 
 
 In 1663, Charles II. granted patents for two theatres in London. The drama 
 again rose and flourished. But what of Shylock ? The Jew's character had been 
 denuded of that dignity and intensity which belongs to the original conception, and 
 he had been forced to wear the garb and mien of a low jester and buftoon. The per- 
 verted taste of the last half of the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth 
 centuries seemed to be unequal to the true appreciation of this grand and gloomy 
 creation of the poet. Yet we hear of such a man as Rowe saying : " I cannot but 
 think the character was trarjkalhj designed by the author." 
 
 Charles Macklin — of whose Shylock Pope said: "This is the Jew that Shake-
 
 INTRODUOTIOX. 7 
 
 speare drew " — was tlio first, after the restoration, to play Shylock as a serious part. 
 Doran, in his "Annals of the English Stage," thus notices this reform : — 
 
 " There was a wliisper that he was about to play the Jew as a serious character. 
 His comrades laughed, and the manager was nervous. The rehearsals told them 
 nothing, for there Macklin did little more than walk through the pai-t, lest the 
 manager should prohibit the playing of the piece, if the nature of the reform 
 Macklin was about to introduce should make him fearful of consequences. In some 
 such dress as that we now see worn by Shylock, Macklin, on the night of the 15th 
 of February, 1741, walked down tiie stage, and, looking through the eyelet-hole in 
 the curtain, saw the two ever-formidable front rows of the pit occupied by the most 
 highly-dreaded critics of the period. The house was also densely crowded. He 
 turned from his survey, calm and content, remarking : ' Good ! I shall be tried 
 to-night, by a special jury !' 
 
 "There was little applause, to Macklin's disappointment, on his entrance; yet 
 the people were pleased at the aspect of a Jew whom Rembrandt might have painted. 
 The opening scene was spoken in familiar, but earnest accents. Not a hand yet gave 
 token of approbation, but there occasionally reached Macklin's ears, from the two 
 solemn rows of judge and jury in the pit, the sounds of a 'Good !' and ' Very good !' 
 'Very well, indeed!' and he passed otf, more gratified by this than by the slight 
 general applause intended for encouragement. 
 
 "As the play proceeded, so did his triumph grow. In the scene with Tubal, 
 which Doggett, in Lansdownc's version, had made so comic, he shook the hearts, 
 and not the sides, of the audience. There was deep emotion in that critical pit. 
 The sympathies of the house went all for Shylock ; and at last, a storm of acclama- 
 tion, a very hurricane of approval, roared pleasantly over Macklin. So far, all was 
 well ; but the trial-scene had yet to come. 
 
 " It came ; and there the triumph culminated. The actor was not loud, nor 
 grotesque; but Shylock w'as natural, calmly confident, and so terribly malignant, 
 that when he whetted his knife, 'to cut the forfeit from that bankrupt there,' a shud- 
 der went round the house, and the profound silence following told Macklin that he 
 held bis audience by the heart-strings, and that his hearers must have already 
 acknowledged the truth of his interpretation of Shakespeare's Jew. When the act- 
 drop fell, then the pent-up feelings found vent, and Old Drury shook again with the 
 tumult of applause." 
 
 Since the time of Macklin, there have been many representatives of Shylock, of 
 great merit ; but we have not space to enlarge upon the peculiarities and the great 
 points of these various performances. Edmund Kean was the next to introduce 
 original features into the performance of Shylock, With this part he first entered 
 upon his career of fame; indeed, we may almost say that his debut in this role 
 rescued him from starvation. The circumstance is beautifully told by Doran : — 
 
 " At the one morning rehearsal, he fluttered his fellow-actors, and scared the 
 manager, by his independence and originality, 'Sir, this will never do!' cried Ray- 
 mond, the acting manager. ' It is quite an innovation ; it cannot b(5 permitted.' — ' Sir,' 
 said the poor, proud man, ' I wish it to be so !' and the players smiled, and Keau 
 went home — that is, to his lodgings, in Cecil Street — on that snowy, foggv 26th of 
 February, 1814, calm, hopeful, and hungry. 'To-day,' said he, ' I must dine P 
 
 " Having accomplished that rare feat, he went forth alone, and on foot, ' T 
 wish,' he remarked, ' I was going to be shot !' He had with him a few properties,
 
 8 INTRODUCTIOIT. 
 
 which he was bound to procure for himself, tied up in a poor handkerchief, under 
 his arm. His wife remained, with their child, at home. Kean tramped on beneath 
 the falling snow, and over that which thickly encumbered the ground — solid here, 
 there in slush ; — ^and, by and by, pale, quiet, but fearless, he dressed, in a room 
 shared by two or three others, and went down to tlie wing by which he was to 
 enter. Hitlierto, no one liad spoken to him save Jack Bannister, who said a cheering 
 word ; and Oxberry, who had tendered to him a glass, and wished liim good fortune. 
 'By Jove!' exclaimed a first-rater, looking at him, ' Shvlock in a black wig! 
 Well ! I' 
 
 "The house could hold, as it is called, £600; there was not more than a sixth 
 of that sum in front. AVinter without, his coim'ades within ; — all was against him. 
 At length he went on, with Rae, as Bassanio, in ill-humor; and groups of actors at 
 the wings, to witness the first scene of a new candidate. All that Edmund Kean 
 ever did was gracefully done ; and the bow which he made, in return to the usual 
 welcoming applause, was eminently graceful. Dr. Drury, the head master of 
 Harrow, who took great interest in him, looked fixedly at him as he came forward. 
 Shylock leant over his crutched stick, with both hands; and, looking askance at 
 Bassanio, said: 'Three thousand ducats?' paused, bethought liimself, and then 
 added : ' Well ?' ' He is safe,' said Dr. Drury. 
 
 "The groups of actors soon after dispersed to the green-room. As they reached 
 it, there reached there, too, an echo of the loud applause given to Shylock's reply to 
 Bassanio's assurance that he may take the bond: ' I will be assured I may !' Later 
 came the sounds of the increased approbation bestowed on the delivery of the 
 passage ending with: 'And for these courtesies, I'll lend you thus much moneys.' 
 The act came to an end gloriously; and the players in the green-room looked for the 
 coming among them of the new Shylock. He proudly kept aloof; knew he was 
 friendless, but felt that he was, in himself, sufficient. 
 
 " He wandered about the back of the stage, thinking, perhaps, of the mother and 
 child at home; and sure, now, of having at least made a step toward triumph. He 
 wanted ho congratulations; and he walked cheerfully down to the wing where the 
 scene was about to take place between him and his daughter, Jessica, in his very 
 calling to whom: ' Why, Jessica! I sav,' there was, as some of us may remember, 
 from an after-night's experience, a charm, as of music. The whole scene was played 
 with rare merit ; but the absolute triumph was not won till the scene (which was 
 marvellous in his hands) in the third act, between Shylock, Solanio, and Salarino, 
 ending with the dialogue between the first and Tubal. Shylock's anguish at his 
 daughter's flight; his wrath at the two Christians, who make sport of his anguish; 
 his hatred of all Christians, generally, and of Antonio in particular ; and then his alter- 
 nations of rage, grief, and ecstasy, as Tubal relates the losses incurred in the search 
 for that naughty Jessica, her extravagances, and then the ill-luck that had fallen upon 
 Antonio. In all this, there was such originality, such terrible force, such assurance 
 of a new and mighty master, that the house burst forth into a very whirlwind of 
 approbation. ' What now ?' was the cry in the green-room. The answer was, that 
 the presence and the power of the genius were acknowledged with an enthusiasm 
 which shook the very roof." 
 
 Dunlap, in his " Historv of the American Theatre," says : " On the 5th of Sep- 
 tember, 1752, at Williamsburg, the capital of Virginia, the first play performed in 
 America, by a regular company of comedians, was represented to a delighted
 
 JXTUODrCTION'. 9 
 
 audience. The piece was The Mercluuit of Venice." Subsequent writers have 
 shown this statement to he erroneous,* and that, while Tlie Merchant of Venice may 
 have tlien for the first time been presented to an American audience, it was preceded 
 b\' Ricliard III. and Othello, at New York. Richard III. was given, as probably 
 the first effort of a company of Thespians in that city, on the .5th of March, I7o0. 
 It will interest Knickerbockers to know that the theatre which witnessed this early 
 performance was situated, as shown by J. X. Ireland, in his forthcomino- work on 
 the New York Stage (with the advance sheets of which we have been favored by 
 the publisher, T. II. Morrell), " on the east side of Nassau Street (formerly Kip 
 Street), between John Street and Maiden Lane, on lots now known by the numbers 
 64 and 66 (186G)." The performers on this occasion, it will please the good people 
 of the City of Brotherly Love to learn, were driven from Phihidelphia as a set of 
 " vagabonds." 
 
 The Merchant of Venice was, without doubt, introduced to the New York 
 audience in the fall of 17.5.3, by the same company which, as Dunlap states, opened 
 in Williamsburg a year previous. From that day to this, the play has stood among 
 the first in favor in Xew York and the other principal cities of the country. 
 
 Of all the actors Avho have essayed the role of Shylock on our American stage, 
 no one seems to have left so lasting an impression as Junius Brutus Booth. The 
 following critique will give the reader, who may not have had the good fortune to 
 see and hear for himself, a conception of the "elder Booth's"' peculiar rendition of 
 this character : — • 
 
 " Booth's interpretation of the part of Shylock ditfered greatly from that which 
 was popular on the stage of his day. The superficial features of the Jew's character 
 are patent to every one — his greed, his miserliness, his implacable revengefulness ; — 
 but, in the refined handling of this great artist, these traits were made the mere 
 outworks behind which was seated a grand reserved force, which the spectator 
 found it difficult to analyze, but the presence of which was none the less powerfully 
 felt. The Jew stood forth as the representative of his race ; he Avrapped up in himself 
 the dignity of the patriarchs of his people. But this does not express all ; in tlie 
 person of Shylock, as given by Booth, the old faith, recognizing justice alone, not 
 mercy — 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth' — was brought into contrast with 
 that which superseded it, as represented in the person of Antonio and beautifully 
 expounded by Portia. Mercy 'is twice blessed ; it blesses him that gives, and him 
 that takes,' saith Portia. ' I crave the law,' saith the Jew. 
 
 "Xo man was more catholic in his sentiments than Booth. He read the Koran, 
 and often attended the synagogues. He sympathized with the Jews as an oppressed 
 and reviled race, and knew how to assume the Hebraic stand-point. The Jewish 
 race stood to him for an idea — the inexorableness of law ; and the conception of a 
 people selected as the guardian and minister of this law, as the arm of fate, affected 
 his imagination profoundly. Why shall not Shylock exact his usances? Why 
 shall he not demand the penaltj' and forfeit of his bond ? Are they not all Christian 
 dogs — gentiles, accursed by the law? In the person of Shylock, Booth embodied 
 
 * As early as 1T33 there existed a " play -house " in New York, but the legitimate drama was perfdrmed. if at 
 all, in a very crude manner, the play-house being used ])riiieipally for puppet-shows and entertainments of like 
 character. It is more tlian probable that the first company of English actors which crossed the Atlantic first 
 appeared in 1T46. in .Jamaica. West Indies. The second company, as mentioned by Dunlap. crossed in 1T52. and 
 appeared in Williamshur;:. Virginia. Tliese two companies afterward united, forming wliat was long known as 
 the American Company.
 
 10 INTRODUCTION'. 
 
 all this gloomy grandeur of position, this merciless absoluteness of will. Yet 
 Shylock's more special personality — if we may so express it — his hatred of xVntonio, 
 not simply ' for he is a Christian,' but because he has hindered him in his usurious 
 practices, was not merged and lost in his representative character. Booth kept the 
 two distinct, skilfully using the former in order to throw out in darker background 
 the shadowy presence of the latter. Finely in keeping with this rendering of the 
 part, is the exit of Shvlock from the macliinery of the piece on the termination of 
 the fourth act. The lighter and more graceful work of the play goes on ; but 
 Shylock withdraws, and with him this grand, gloomy, cruel past, which he represents, 
 while the light-hearted, forgiving, and forgiven children of the day bring all their 
 wishes to a happy consummation.''
 
 COSTUME. 
 
 The costume in Venice at the period of the action of this play was, in many 
 instances, so eccentric, that, were it strictly adhered to in representation, " it is to 
 be feared," as White remarks, "that the splendor and faithfulness of the scene would 
 be forgotten in its absurdity, and that the audience would explode in fits of uncon- 
 trollable lauo'hter, as the various personages came upon the stage." Fancy "Antonio 
 with a bonnet like an inverted porringer shadowing liis melancholy countenance," 
 and his trunk-hose puffed out with bombast to an enormous size. Fancy the gifted 
 Portia mounted on cioppini, or, as they have been called, " wooden scaffolds "— 
 "things made of wood, and covered with leather of sundry colors," which were 
 sometimes "half a yard high," or, as another account says, "as high as a man's 
 leg." Fancy Portia, thus gigantically proportioned, led in by "two maids, to keep 
 her from falling." The following cut, which is from a very rare book on costume, 
 supposed to have been published about the year 1600, a copy of which is in the 
 
 possession of Richard Grant White, illustrates this strange custom, as well as the 
 general peculiarities of the female dress of the times, and shows tlu; impracticability 
 of putting such quaint "make-ups" upon the stage. 
 
 For the female dress of this play, therefore, it will be proper to select from the 
 manv beautiful and richly ornate Italian costumes, which have been handed down to
 
 12 
 
 COSTUME. 
 
 us by painting and tlie arts nf illumination, sucli as may l>ost suit tlie temper of each 
 character, and conduce liy tlieir antiquity to the imaginative enjoyment of the play. 
 The costume given in the following illustration, taken from Knight's Pictorial 
 Shakespeare, is well suited to the magnificent tastes of tlie time, and may be 
 adoptetl with propriety. 
 
 The male attire of this period, or such of it, at least, as distinguished the higher 
 class, may be considered of two kinds : that one which was used on festive occasions, 
 or in gayer moods, by all ages, and which was worn at all times, by young gallants 
 Avho had not I'cached the age of " eighteen or twenty," and that one which pertained 
 to sedater moods, and occasions of state. Knight, quoting Vecellio, has given an 
 interesting description of these habits. Young lovers, he tells us, "wear, generally, 
 a doublet and breeches of satin, tabbv, or other silk, cut or slashed in the form of 
 crosses or stars, through which slaslies is seen the lining of colored taffeta ; gold 
 buttons, a lace ruff, a bonnet of rich velvet, or silk, with an ornamental band, a silk 
 cloak, and silk stockings, Spanish morocco shoes, a flower in one hand, and their 
 gloves and handkerchief in the other. This habit was worn b}' many of tlie nobility, 
 as well of Venice as of other Italian cities." Illustrations in Ferrario represent the 
 high bonnet as in some instances substituted by the more reasonable cap, but in no 
 instance are feathers woi-n. Full but not very long beards were general. 
 
 The other habit, which, as we have said, belonged to maturer years and dignified 
 occasions, consisted of a gown, which was sometimes worn over the gay attire above 
 described. This robe received special modifications, adapting it to special occasions 
 and particular offices ; it may be termed the common exterior dress of the Venetians. 
 
 The robe or gown of the Doge was of silk of a purple dye, or sometimes of cloth 
 of gold ; it came down to the feet, and was encircled about his waist with a richly 
 embroidered belt. Over this was thrown a mantle of cloth of silver, so long as to 
 trail to some extent upon the ground. These garments were " adorned with many 
 curious works, made in colors with needlework." Finally, a cape of ermine encom-
 
 COSTUME. 13 
 
 passed his shoulders and reached to the elhows. His head was covered with a thin 
 coif, over which he wore a mitre, correspondiiio- in color witli the robe ami mantle, 
 and which turned up behind, in the form of a horn. His feet were encased in slip- 
 pers, or, according to some accounts, sandals. 
 
 The chiefs of the Council of Ten, three in number, wore red gowns with red 
 stockino-s and slippers; the other seven were attired the same, only the color was 
 black. These gowns hulig loose, and extended nearly to the ground. A flap, three 
 or four inches wide, of the same color as the gowns, or sometimes black, was worn 
 on the red gowns, and thrown over the left shoulder. The sleeves were large and 
 flowing, reaching almost to the ground. "All these gowned men," says Croyat, "do 
 wear marvellous little black caps of felt, without any brims at all, and very diminu- 
 tive falling bands, uo rufls at all, which are so shallow, that I have seen many of 
 them not above a little inch deep." 
 
 For the dress of the Doctor of Laws, Knight gives the following from A^ecellio: 
 " The upper robe was of black damask cloth, velvet, or silk, according to the weather. 
 The under one of black silk, with a silk sash, the ends of which hang down to the 
 middle of the leg; the stockings of black cloth or velvet, the cap of rich velvet or 
 silk." The sleeves of the gown of the Doctor of Laws, though very full, were tight 
 at the wrist ; and a flap, as in the case of the Council, thrown over the left shoulder. 
 The lawyer's clerk was also dressed in black, the gown extending about to the ankles. 
 
 Gondoliers in Ferrario are represented in tight-fitting jackets and breeches. 
 Pages and servants, in jackets and short trunks ; artisans, in short gowns. 
 
 But how are Shylock and the "pretty Jessica" to be attired? 
 
 Touching the dress of Jewish women, Csesar Vecellio, in his " Habiti Antiche e 
 Moderni," 1598, says that they wore yellow veils, but in other respects ditfered not 
 from Christian women of the same rank. They were distinguished, however, by 
 being " highly painted." 
 
 The Jewish men also differed in nothing, in respect of dress, from Venetians 
 of the same walk, except that they were compelled, by order of the government, to 
 wear a yellow bonnet. The story is, that the color was changed from red to yellow 
 because a Jew was accidentallv taken for a cardinal. Saint Didier, it is true, in 
 his "Histoire de Venise," says that the color of the bonnet was "scarlet;" but the 
 best authority, Vecellio, reports that it was yellow. "It is not impossible," as 
 Knight remarks, "that the 'orange-tawny bonnet' might have been worn of so deep 
 a color, by some of the Hebrew pojjulation, as to have been described as red by a 
 careless observer, or that some Venetian Jews, in fiict, did venture to wear red caps 
 or bonnets in defiance of the statutes, and thereby misled the traveller or the histo- 
 rian." Shylock speaks of his "Jewish gaberdine." In old English this word was 
 applied to a loose, coarse, and, perhaps, motley garment, worn by a }»rescribed class, 
 or the poorer soi't ; and in Scottish dialect it still retains this usage. Shakespeare, 
 therefore, caring only for the picturesque appointments of his play, seems to have 
 meant, by the "Jewish gabei-dine," an article of dress distinctive of the Hebrew 
 class; nor in this case can we introduce historical accuracy of costume without mar- 
 ring the effect of the piece. 
 
 It is seen, then, in some instances to be advantageous, and in others to be strictly 
 necessary, to modify the costume in putting this great work of our author upon the 
 stage. The Venice of Shakespeare's day has been usually set as the time of the 
 action of this plav, and the above detail of costume is of that date, but the stories
 
 14 COSTUME. 
 
 upon whicli the play is founded are much older. White says : " Any Italian cos- 
 tume, rich, beautiful, and sufficiently antique to remove the action out of the range 
 of present probabilities, will meet the dramatic requirements of this play; but the 
 oranore-tawny bonnet, that mark of an outcast race, outifht not to be missed from the 
 brow of Shylock." 
 
 The dress worn by the youth of the latter part of the fourteenth and during the 
 fifteenth centuries contains man)' elegant features, and may be adopted in part, or in 
 all its details, with good effect. 
 
 Ferrario thus describes the toilet of young nol^lemen of this period: "They 
 brought a few curls oyer the forehead, and allowed the rest of the hair to fall in 
 waves upon the shoulders; they donned a coat, which reached to the middle of the 
 leg, and was embroidered with various flowers in silk and gold, and Avas fastened in 
 front with gold buttons and gatliered about the waist with a silk belt, from which 
 hung a sword on the left side ; this coat was adorned with lace, and had a hood, 
 wliich hung down below the belt ; the sleeves enveloped the arm as far as the elbow, 
 and then hung open in more or less long pendants. They wore hose of red cloth, 
 and low, laced shoes." 
 
 In other instances, this upper garment, according to the same author, was much 
 shorter, sometimes not covering the hips ; in this case it has tiijht sleeves reaching 
 to the wrist. The hoods "were very small, and had 'beaks' falling back almost to 
 the ground." "The men were also adorned witlrnecklaces or bands of silver, stud- 
 ded with pearls or red coral, and matiy young men went bearded."' Another variety 
 of this dress, peculiar perhaps to a somewhat more youthful age, consists of a striped 
 hose extending up the whole leg, and a doublet or jacket, " open at the breast and 
 tightened about the loins with a belt, after the manner of the ladies of our time." 
 Ferrario pronounces this costume "simple and beautifid." Wahlen, in describing 
 tlie dress of a young Venetian of this period, adds to details similar to those above 
 given, that of a cloak, thrown over and completely enveloping the coat or doublet, 
 and reaching as low as the breech. This cloak is lined with material of a different 
 color, and is edged with gohl. It does not " open on the side, but is looped up to 
 the right shoulder." With this was worn, for " coifFcui'," a linen bonnet of some 
 rich color, and of moderate height. 
 
 At the various revivals of The Merchant of Venice, it has been customary to 
 adopt, in the male attire, what is called the "Venetian Shape," — a dress similar to 
 that described in tlie early part of this article, as worn by "young lovers." But the 
 puffing out of the breeches with bombast, — a marked featui'c of this costume, — has 
 never, and perhaps with good reason, been introduced. The dress to which we have 
 given the preference, the distinguishing mark of whicli is what is known on the stao-e 
 as "the hauberk," may be followed with more historical fidelitv, and is undoubtedly 
 the more picturesque of the two.
 
 CAST OF THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 
 
 AS REVIVED AT 
 
 DRURY LANE THEATRE, FEBRUARY 15, 1741, 
 
 On which occasion the play was for the firsc time since the Restoration pertbrmed from the original 
 text, and Shylock rendered as a serious character. 
 
 ANTONIO QUIN. 
 
 BASSANIO MILWARD. 
 
 GRATI ANO MILLS. 
 
 SHYLOCK MACKLIN. 
 
 LAUNCELOT CHAPMAN 
 
 PRINCE OF MOROCCO CASHELL. 
 
 PRINCE OF ARRAGON TURBUTT. 
 
 LORENZO HAVARD. 
 
 GOBBO JOHNSON. 
 
 TUBAL TASWELL. 
 
 PORTIA Mrs. CLIVE. 
 
 NERISSA Mrs. PRITCHARD. 
 
 JESSICA Mrs. WOODMAN. 
 
 CAST OF THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 
 
 AS PLAYED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THIS COUNTRY, 
 
 WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA, SEPTEMBER 5, 1752. 
 
 SHYLOCK M ALONE. 
 
 BASSANIO RIGBY. 
 
 ANTONIO CLARKSON. 
 
 GRATIANO SINGLETON. 
 
 SALANIO, / HERBERT. 
 
 DUKE, "i 
 
 SALARINO, , WINNEL. 
 
 GOBBO, \ 
 
 LAUNCELOT, } H ALLAM. 
 
 TUBAL, i 
 
 BALTHAZAR Master LEWIS HALLAM. 
 
 His first appearance on any stage. 
 
 PORTIA Mrs. HALLAM. 
 
 NERISSA M;ss PALMER. 
 
 JESSICA Miss HALLAM. 
 
 Her first appearance on any stage.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 or the Merchant of Venice, as represented at the Winter Garden Theatre, New York, 18G7, under 
 the immediate supervision of Mr. EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 DiKECTOK, "\V. StUAET STAGE MANAGER, J. G. HANLEY SCKSIO ArTIST, C. W. WiTUAil. 
 
 DUKE OF VENICE W. DOXALDSON. 
 
 PRINCE OF AERAGON, Suitor to Portia JAMES DUFF. 
 
 ANTONIO, the Mercli.-iin of Venice M. W. LEFFINGWELL. 
 
 BASSANIO, his Friend J. NEWTON GOTTHOLD. 
 
 GRATIANO. ^ ( BARTON HILL. 
 
 SALANIO. (.Friends to Antonio and Bassanio -l W. NELSON DECKER. 
 
 SALARINO, ) ( HENRT L. HINTON. 
 
 LORENZO, in love with Jessica MARSHALL OLIVER. 
 
 SHTLOCK, .1 Jew EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend J. DUELL. 
 
 LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown W. S. ANDREWS. 
 
 OLD GOBBO, Father to Laixcelot W. DA V1D6E. 
 
 SALERIO, a Messenger CLAUDE D. BURROUGHS. 
 
 LEONARDO. Servant to Bassanio H. HOGAN. 
 
 BALTHAZAR, Ser\ant to Portia J. SUTTON. 
 
 PORTIA, a rich Heiress MARIE METHUA SCHELLEPv. 
 
 NERISSA, her Waitinji-woinan M. CUSHING. 
 
 JESSICA, Daughter to PiivLorK E. JOHNSON. 
 
 MagDlflcoes of Venice, Officers of the Cimrt of Justice. Jailers, Servants, ami other Attendants. 
 
 Scene : Partlj' at Venice, partly at Belmont, and partly at Genoa. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 page 
 
 Frontispiece Designed by Hennery 1 
 
 A Gondola Designed by MUs Jemie, Curtis. 17 
 
 The Ei alto, Venice After stretches by Leutze 21 
 
 CuuKCH OF San Giovanni e Paolo, Venice After sketches by Leutze .... 26 
 
 The Place of St. Mark, A'enice After slietches by Leutze 31 
 
 A Hall in Portia's IIorsE. Belmont Designed by Witliam 3.3 
 
 Hall of the Great Senate, Diical Pal.ice, Venice After sketches by Leutze 39 
 
 Casket-Chest Designed by Duell 41 
 
 Engravkr, D. W. C. Ca.mmeter.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — 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 cauglit 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 rae, 
 That I have much ado to know myself 
 ■ Salarino. Your mind is tossine;- 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 curt'sy to them, do them reverence, 
 As they fly by them with their woven wings. 
 
 Salanio. Beheve 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 wliere 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. 
 
 Salar. My wind, coohng 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 sliallows and of flats. 
 And see my wealthy Andrew* dock'd iu 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 thoughit, 
 That such a thing bechanc'd would make me 
 
 sad? 
 But, tell not me: I know, Antonio 
 Is sad to think upon his merchandize. 
 
 Ant. 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 tiiis present year: 
 Therefore, my merchandize makes me not sad. 
 Salar. Why, then you are in love. 
 Ant. Fye, fye! 
 
 Salar. Xot in love neither ? Then let's 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 net sad. Now, by two-headed 
 
 Janus,'' 
 
 1 ArgoKies. — Argosies are large ships, either for merchandise or for war. The name was probalil y derived from 
 the classical ship Argo, which carried Jason and the Argonauts in quest of the golden fleece. — Hudson. 
 
 ^ Like siyniors and rich burghers on the flood. — The "signiors and rich burghers on the flood," are the Vene- 
 tians, who may well be said to live on the sea. — Douce. 
 
 3 Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind. — By holding up the grass, or any other light body that will 
 bend by a gentle blast, the direction of the wind is found. — Johnsos. 
 
 ■" Andrew. — This name was probably a common one for ships, in compliment to Andrea Doria, the great 
 Genoese Admiral. — Whitk. 
 
 * Vailing. — To rail is to lower: from the French avaler. 
 
 ° Two-headed Jan us. — By two-headed Janus, is meant those ancient bifrontine he.ads which generally represent 
 a younj; and smiling face, together with an old and wrinkled one, being of Pan and Bacchus, of Saturn and Apollo, 
 <fec. — Warisurton".
 
 18 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Nature hath fram'd strauge 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, 
 
 Thac they'll not show their teeth in way of 
 
 smile. 
 Though Xestor swear the jest be laughable. 
 
 Sedan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble 
 kinsman, 
 Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: 
 We leave you now with better company. 
 
 Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made 
 you merry, 
 If worthier friends had not prevented me. 
 
 Ant. Your wortli is very dear in my regard. 
 I take it. your own business calls on you, 
 And you embrace th' occasion to depart. 
 
 Enter Bassaxio, Lorexzo, and Gratiaxo. 
 
 Falar. Good morrow, my good lords. 
 
 Bassanio. Good signiors both, when shall we 
 laugh? Say, when? 
 You grow exceeding strange : must it be so ? 
 
 Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on 
 yours. [E:i:€unt Salarixo and Sai^vxio. 
 
 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. 
 
 Bass. I will not fill j-ou. 
 
 Qratiano. Y'ou 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. 
 
 Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gra- 
 tiano; 
 A stage, where every man must play a part. 
 And mine 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, 
 Tlian my heart cool wiih mortifying groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
 Sit like his grandsirc cut in alabaster? 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice 
 By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
 I love thee, and it is 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 oj^e my lips, let no dog bark ! ' 
 0! my Antonio, I do know of these. 
 That tlierefore 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, a while: 
 I'll end my exhortation after dinner.'' 
 
 Lor. 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. 
 
 Gra. Well, keep me company but two years 
 more, 
 Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own 
 tongue. 
 
 Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talk?r for this gear.* 
 
 Gra. Thanks, i'faiih ; for silence is only com- 
 mendable 
 In a neat's tongue dri'd, and a maid not vendi- 
 ble. [Exeunt Gratiaxo OMd Lorenzo. 
 
 Ant. Is that anything now? 
 
 Bass. 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 nre 
 not worth the search. 
 
 Ant. Well; tell me now, what kdy is the same 
 To whom j-ou swore a secret pilgrimage. 
 That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? 
 
 Bass. 'Tis not imknown 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 mj^ time, something too prodigal. 
 Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, 
 I owe the most, in money, and in love ; 
 And from 3'our love I have a warranty 
 To unburthen all my plots and purposes, 
 How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 
 
 Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let mo 
 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. 
 
 Bass. In mv 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, 
 
 ' Damn those ears, * * * brothers fooh. — Some people are thnnght wise while they keep silence, who, when 
 they open their mouths, are such stupid praters that the hearers can not help calling them fools, and so incur the 
 judgment denounced in the gospel ag.ainst him who " says to his brother, Thou fool." — Theobald. 
 
 ^ Fool-gudgeon. — Gu</geon was the name of a small fish very easily caught. — Hudson. 
 
 * TU end my exhortation after dinner. — The humor of this consists in its being an allusion to the practice of 
 the Puritin preachers of those times ; who, being generally very long .md tedious, were often forced to put off that 
 part of their sermon called the exhortation till after dinner. — Wabbueton. 
 
 * For thi.i gear — for this matter. 
 
 * Port — appearance.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 19 
 
 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 slioot 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. 
 
 Ant. 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. 
 
 Bass. In Belmont is a lady riclily 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 undervalued 
 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' strand. 
 And many Jasons come in quest of her. 
 0, 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. 
 
 A'lt. 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; 
 Tiiat 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. 
 
 Scene "II. — Belmont. — An. Apartment in Por- 
 tia's House. 
 
 Enter Portia and Nerissa. 
 
 Portia. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body 
 is aweary of tiiis great world. 
 
 Nvissa. You would be, sweet Madam, if your 
 miseries were in the same abundance as your 
 good fortunes are. And, yet, for aught I see, 
 they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as 
 they that starve with nothing: it is no small 
 happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean : 
 superfluity comes sooner by white hairs,' but 
 competency lives longer. 
 
 Par. Good sentences, and well pronounc'd 
 
 Ner. They would be better if well followed. 
 
 Par. If to do were as easy as to know what 
 were good to do, chapels had been churches, 
 and poor men's cottages princes' jjalaces. It is 
 a good divine that follows his own instructions : 
 I can easier teach twenty what were good to be 
 done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine 
 own teaching. The brain may devise laws for 
 the blood- but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold 
 decree: such a hare is madness, the youth, to 
 skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the crip- 
 ple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to 
 choose me a husband. — me 1 the word choose! 
 I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse 
 whom I dislike: so is the will of a living daugh- 
 ter curb'd by the will of a dead father. — 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 ; 
 therefore, the lottery, that he hath devised in 
 these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, 
 (whereof who chooses his meaning, chooses you,) 
 will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, 
 but one who you shall rightly love. But what 
 warmth is there in your affection towards any 
 of these princely suitors that are already come ? 
 
 Por. I prsy thee over-name tliem, and as thou 
 namest them, I will describe them; and, accord- 
 ing to my description, level at my affection. 
 
 Ver. First, there is the Neapolitan Prince. 
 
 Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed,* for he doth 
 nothing but talk of his horse; and ho makes it a 
 great appropriation to his own good parts that 
 he can .shoe him himself I am much afraid my 
 lady his mother play'd false with a smith. 
 
 Ner. Then, is there the County Palatine. 
 
 Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who 
 should say, ' An 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 sad- 
 ness 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, Mon- 
 sieur Le Bon ? 
 
 Por. God made him, and therefore let him 
 pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to 
 be a mocker; but, he! why, he hath a horse 
 better than the Neapolitan's ; a better bad habit 
 of frowning than the Count Palatine: he is 
 every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, he falls 
 straight acap'ring: he will fence with his own 
 shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry 
 twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I 
 would forgive him: for if he love me to madness, 
 I shall never requite him. 
 
 Ner. What say you, tiien, to Faulconbridge, 
 the young Baron, of England ? 
 
 ' Prest — ready. - Sometimes — formerly. 
 
 3 Superfluity/ comes sooner hy tchite hairs — superfluity snoner acquires wliite hairs; becomes ol(]. We still 
 say, How did he come hy it. — Malone. 
 
 * A colt indeed — This term is apiilied to the Prince in question, on account of the \\vA repute of the Neapolitan 
 horsemanship. — White. 
 
 * Weeping philosopiUer. — Iler.aclitus, a pliilosopher of Athens, so called ; who, whenever he went abroad, wnpt 
 at the miseries of the world. — Gbev.
 
 20 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 For. Ton know I say nothing to him, for he 
 understands not me, nor I him : he hatli neither 
 Latin, French, nor Itahan; and you will come 
 into the court and swear tliat I have a poor 
 penny-worth in the Knirlish. He is a proper' 
 man's picture; but, alas! who can converse 
 with a dumb show? How oddly he is suited! I 
 think he bought liis doublet in Italy, his round 
 hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and liis 
 behaviour every where. 
 
 Nf-T. "What think you of the Scottish lord, his 
 neighbour ? 
 
 For. That he hath a neighbourly charity in 
 him ; for he borrowed a box of the ear of the 
 Englishman, and swore he would pay him again 
 when he was able: I think'^ the Frenchman be- 
 came his surety, and seal'd under for another. 
 
 Ker. How like you the j'oung German, the 
 Duke of Saxony's nephew ? 
 
 For. Very vilely in the morning, when he is 
 sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he 
 is drunk: when he is best, he is little worse 
 than a man; and when he is worst, he is little 
 better than a, beast. An the worst fall that 
 ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go with- 
 out him. 
 
 Ntr. If he should offer to choose, and choose 
 the right cnsket. you should refuse to perform 
 your father's will, if yon should refuse to accept 
 him. 
 
 For. 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 any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be 
 married to a spunge. 
 
 Nur. You need not fear, lady, the having any 
 of these lords : they have acquainted me with 
 their determinations; which is indeed, to return 
 to their home, and to trouble you witli no more 
 s lit, unless you may be won by someotlier sort^ 
 th;in your father's imposition depending on the 
 caskets. 
 
 For. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will 
 die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by 
 the manner of my father's wiU. I am glad this 
 parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is 
 not one among them but I dote on his very ab- 
 sence; and I wish them a fair departure. 
 
 'Ker. Do you not remember, ladj', in your 
 father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a sol- 
 dier, that came hither in company of the Mar- 
 quis of Montferrat ? 
 
 For. Yes, yes ; it was Bassanio : as I think, 
 so was he called. 
 
 JVer. True. Madam: he, of all the men that 
 ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best 
 deserving a fair lady. 
 
 For. I remember him well, and I remember 
 him worthy of thy praise. 
 
 Entzr Balthazah. 
 
 BaMhazar. The four strangers seek you. Madam, 
 to take their leave ; and there is a forerunner 
 come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who 
 brings word the Prince, his master, will be here 
 to-night. 
 
 Fcr. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so 
 good lieart as I can bid the other four farewell, 
 I should be glad of his approach: if lie have 
 the condition* of a saint, and the complexion of 
 a devil, I had rather lie should shrive me. than 
 wive me. 
 
 Come, Xerissa. — Sirrah, go before. 
 Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, an- 
 other knocks at the door. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Venice. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Bassanio and S:iylock. 
 
 Shylock. Three thousand ducats, — well. 
 
 Bass. Ay, sir. for three montlis. 
 
 Shy. For three months, — well. 
 
 Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio 
 shall be bound. 
 
 Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 
 
 Bass. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure 
 me? Shall I know your answer? 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months, 
 and .\ntonio bound. 
 
 Ba.S9. Your answer to that. 
 
 Shy. Antonio is a good man. 
 
 Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the 
 contrary ? 
 
 Shy. Ho! no, no, no, no: — my meaning, in 
 saying he is a good man, is to have you under- 
 stand me, that he is sufficient; yet his means 
 are in supposition. He hath an argosy bound 
 to Tripolis, another to the Indies: I understand 
 moreover upon the Rialto, ho hath a third at 
 Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ven- 
 tures he hath squandered^ abroad; but ships 
 are but boards, sailors but men : there be land- 
 rats and water-rats, land-thieves and water- 
 thieves, — I mean, pirates: and then, there is the 
 peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man 
 is. notwithstanding, sufficient : three thousand 
 ducats. — I think I may take his bond. 
 
 Bass. Be assured you may. 
 
 Shy. I will be assured I may ; and that I may 
 be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak 
 vv^ith Antonio? 
 
 Bass. If it please you to dine with us. 
 
 Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habi- 
 tation which your prophet, the Nazarite, con- 
 
 ^ Pro/)*;"— handsome. 
 
 - / think, &c. — Alluding to the constant assist.inee. or mther constant promises of assistance that the French 
 gave the Scots in their quanels with the English. This alliance is here humorousl}' satirized. — WAnnrr.Tox. 
 
 ^ Sort — lot * Condition — disposition. 
 
 5 Sjunndered.— In a letter published \>y Mr. AValdron, in Woodlairs 'Theatrical Kepertory.' 1501. it is stated 
 that "Macklin, mistakenly, spoke the word with a tone of reproliation, implying that .Vntonio had. as we say of 
 jirodigals. unthriftily squandered his wealth."' The meaning is simply scattered ; of which Mr. Waldron gives an 
 example from Ilowelfs 'Letters:" '"Tlie Jews, once an elect people, but now grown contemptible, and strangely 
 sijuander''d up and down the world." — Kkigut.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 21 
 
 jured tlio Devil into. I will buy with you, sell 
 witli you, talk with you, walk with you, and so 
 following; but I will not eat with you, drink 
 with you, nor pray with you. What news on 
 the Rialto?' — AVho is he comes here ? 
 
 Bass. This is Signior Antonio. 
 
 [Exit Bassanio. 
 
 Shij. TTow like a fawning publican he looks I 
 I hate him for he is a Christian;" 
 But more for that, in low simplicity. 
 He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
 The rate of usance'"' here with us in Venice. 
 If I can catch him once upon the hip,'' 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge 1 bear him. 
 He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails. 
 Even there where merchants most do congregate. 
 On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
 Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 
 If I forgive him ! 
 
 Enter Bassanio and Antoxio. 
 
 Bass. [After a pause. 1 Shylock, do you hear? 
 SJuj. I am debating of my present store. 
 And, by the near guess of my memory. 
 
 I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
 
 Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? 
 
 Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe. 
 
 Will furnish me. But soft ! how many months 
 
 Do you desire ? — Eest you foir, good signior ; 
 
 [To AxTOXio. 
 Your worship was the last man in our moutlis. 
 
 Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow 
 By taking, nor by giving of excess. 
 Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
 I'll break a custom. — Is he yet possess'd,^ 
 How much you would ? 
 
 Shy. Ay, aj-, three thousand ducats. 
 
 Ant. And for three months. 
 Shij. I had forgot : — three months ; you told 
 me so. 
 Well then, your bond ; and let mo see — But 
 
 hear you : 
 Methought, you said, you neither leud nor bor- 
 row 
 Upon advantage. 
 
 Arit. I do never use it. 
 
 Shy. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's 
 sheep. 
 
 1 On the liialto.—Tho Kialto, one of the islands upon which Yenice is built, jrave its name first to the Exchange 
 which was built upon it, and then to the bridge by which it was reached. It may mean here either of the former ; 
 but probably the second of them. — White. 
 
 2 I hate him/or he is a Christiini.—Tho lack of a point between 'him' and 'for' here, is not .accidental. Shy- 
 lock does not say he hates Antonio and add his reason ; but makes a simple statement of a simple thought (single 
 though composed of two elements)— that ho hates the Merchant because he is a Christian. This use of 'for' was 
 common in Shakespeare's day. — White. 
 
 3 The rate of usance. — Usance, usury, and interest, were all terms of precisely the same import in Sh.ako- 
 speare's time ; there being then no such law or custom whereby usury has since come to mean the taking of interest 
 above a certain rate.— Ilrnsox. 
 
 1 I'pon the hip. — This, Dr. Johnson observes, is a phrase taken from the practice <if wrestlers; and (he might 
 have added) is an allusion to the angel's thus laying hold on J.acob when he wrestled with him. See Gen. xxxii. 
 24, &c. — TIenlev. 
 
 ' Possesa'd — informed.
 
 22 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 — This Jacob from our lioly Abram was 
 (As his wise mother wrouprht in his behalf) 
 The third possessor: ay, he was the third. — 
 Ant. Aud what of liirn? did he take interest? 
 Ivj. No, not take interest; not, as you would 
 
 say, 
 Directly interest: mark what Jacob did. 
 TVhen Laban and liimself ^Vere compromis'd, 
 That all the ean lings' which were streak'd and 
 
 pied, 
 Should fall as Jacob's hire ; 
 The skilful shepherd pill'd'' me certain wands, 
 And, in the doing of the deed of kind,^ 
 He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes 
 "Who, then conceiving, did in caning time 
 Pall* party-colour'd lambs ; and those were Ja- 
 cob's. 
 This was a way to thrive, and he was bless'd: 
 And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 
 
 Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob sers''d 
 
 for; 
 A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 
 But swaj-'d, and fashion'd, by the hand of 
 
 Heaven. 
 "Was tins inserted to make interest good ? 
 Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? 
 
 Shy. I cannot tell: I make it breed as fast. — 
 But note me, Signior. 
 
 Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, 
 
 The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 
 An evil soul, producing holy witness. 
 Is like a villain with a smiling clieek ; 
 A goodly apple rotten at the heart. 
 0, what a goodly outside falsehood hath 1 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats ; — 'tis a good 
 
 round sura. 
 Three months from twelve, then let me see the 
 
 rate. 
 Ant. "Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to 
 
 you? 
 Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft. 
 In the Rial to you have rated me 
 About my moneys, and my usances : 
 Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; 
 For sulT'rance is the badge of all our tribe. 
 Yon call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
 And spet' upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
 And all for use of that which is mine own. 
 "W'ell then, it now appears, you need my help : 
 Go to then; j'ou come to me, and you say, 
 'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so; 
 You, that did void vour rheum upon my beard, 
 Aud foot me, as you sjiurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. 
 "U'hat should I say to yo\i ? Should I not say, 
 ' Hath a dog money? is it possible, 
 A cur should lend three thousand ducats?' or 
 Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
 "With 'bated breath, and whisp'ring humbleness. 
 
 Say this: 
 
 'Fair sir, you spot on me on Wednesday last; 
 
 You spurn'd mc such a day; another time 
 You call'd me dog; aud for the.^e courtesies 
 I'll lend you thus much moneys?' 
 
 Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, 
 To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
 If thou wilt lend this mone}', lend it not 
 As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take 
 A breed" of barren metal of his friend? 
 But lend it rather to thine enemy; 
 Who if he break, thou may'st with better face 
 Exact the penalties. 
 
 Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! 
 
 I would be friends with you, and have your love. 
 Forget the shames that .you have stain'd me wit'.i, 
 Supply 3'our present wants, and take no doit 
 Of usance for my moneys. 
 And you'll not hear me. This is kind I offer. 
 
 Ant. 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 ofl' and taken 
 In what part of your body it pk aseth me. 
 
 Ant. Content, in faith: III 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. W'liy, 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. 
 
 S)ty. 0, father Abram I what these Christians 
 are. 
 Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
 The thoughts of others ! — Pray yon, 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 favour I extend this friendship: 
 If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; 
 And, for my love, I pray you, wrong mc not. 
 
 Ant. Yos. Shylock, I will seal imto this bond. 
 
 Shy. Then meet nie forthwith at the notary's. 
 Give him direction for this merrv bond. 
 And I will go and purse the ducats straight ; 
 S?e to my house, left in the fearful guard' 
 Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 
 I will be with you. {^Exit. 
 
 Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 
 
 This 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 ; 
 Mj' ships come home a month before the day. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ^ Eanlings — lambs just brought forth. ^ Piird — peeled. ^ Kind — nature. * Full — let fall. 
 
 ' Spet. — This is an old form of 'spit,' in which the present and the preterite were the same. Here the present 
 is intended ; iielow, the preterite. — AiViHTE. 
 
 ' Lrced — increase. 
 
 ' Fearful guard. — A guard that is the cause of fear, because not to be trusted. Fearful was anciently often 
 used for exciting fear, and is not j-ct quite obsolete. — VEEPL4.:iCK.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 23 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Venice. — Before Shtlock's House. 
 
 Enkr Lauxcelot Gobbo. 
 
 Launceht. Certainly, my consoienco will serve 
 me to run from this Jew, my master. The fiend 
 is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 
 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, p^ood Launcelot, or 
 good Gobbo, or good Launcelct Gobbo, use your 
 legs, take the start, run away:' My conscience 
 says, — 'No: take heed, honest Launcelot ; take 
 heed, honest Gobbo; or. as aforesaid, honest 
 Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running 
 with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous 
 fiend bids me pack; 'Via!' 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 Launcelot, 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, 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the 
 fiend: 'budge not,' says my conscience. Con- 
 science, say I, j'ou counsel well; fiend, say I, 
 you counsel well : to be rul'd by my conscience, 
 I should stay with the Jew my master, who, 
 (God bless the mark!) is a kind of devil; and, 
 to nm 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 Old Gobbo,'' tvith a Basket. 
 
 Gobbo. Master young man, you! I pray you, 
 whicli is the way to Master Jew's? 
 
 Laun. [Aside.] Heavens! this is my true 
 begotten lather, who, being more than sand- 
 blind,^ high-gravel blind,^ knows me not: — I 
 will try confusions with him. 
 
 Gob. Master young gentleman I I pray you, 
 which is the way to Master Jew's ? 
 
 Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next 
 turning, but at tiie next turning of all, on your 
 left; marrjr, at the ver}' next turning, turn of no 
 hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. 
 
 Gob. 'Twill be a hard way to hit. Can you 
 tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with 
 him, dwell with him, or no? 
 
 Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? — 
 [J..swZe.] Mark mo now; now will I raise the 
 waters. — [To him.] Talk you of young Master 
 Launcelot ? 
 
 Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son: 
 his father, though I saj^'t, is an honest exceeding 
 poor man; and, God be thanked, well to live. 
 
 Laun. Well, let his father bo what 'a will, we 
 talk of young Master Launcelot. 
 
 Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. 
 
 Laun. But I praj' you, eirjo, old man, ergo, I 
 beseech you. talk j'ou of yotmg Master Launcelot. 
 
 Gob. Of Launcelot, an't please your master- 
 ship.^ 
 
 Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of 
 Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentle- 
 man (according to fates and destinies, and such 
 odd sayings, the sisters three, and such brandi- 
 es of learning.) is, indeed, deceased; or, as you 
 would say, in plain terms, gone to Heaven. 
 
 Gob. Marry, God forbid! the boy was the 
 very staff of my age, my very prop. 
 
 Laun. [Aside.] Do I look like a cudgel, or a 
 hovel-post, a staff, or a prop ? — [To him.] Do 
 you know me, father ? 
 
 Gob. Alack the day ! I know you not, young 
 gentleman ; but, I pray j'ou, tell me, is my boy 
 (God rest his soul!) alive, or dead ? 
 
 Laun. Do you not know me, Aether ?" 
 
 Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind ; I know 
 you not. 
 
 Laun. 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. [Kneels.] 
 Give me your blessing: truth will come to 
 light; murther cannot be hid long; a man's son 
 may, but in the end, truth will out. 
 
 Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you 
 are not Launcelot, my boy. 
 
 Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling 
 about it, but give me your blessing • I am 
 
 * For the Heavens. — This w.is a petty oath. 
 
 ' Gohbo. — It may be inferred, from the name of Gobbo, that Shakespeare designed the character to be represented 
 \vith a hump-back. — Steevkns. 
 
 3 Sand-blind. — Having an imperfect siglit, as if there were sand in the eye. — Nabes. 
 
 * Illgh-gracel hIind.—Gratel-hlhid. a coinage of Limncelot's, is the exaggeration oi sand-blind. — KxioiiT. 
 
 * Launcelot whimsically Lakes his father to Uisk for disrespect to himself — Launcelot, and says, in reply to (dd 
 Gobbo's statement of their condition in life, "Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launce- 
 lot." The father, still un.ible to dub his .son 'Master,' replies deprecatingly, " Your worship's friend, and Launcelot," 
 i. «., ' Aye, we speak of your Avorship's friend, who is Launcelot.' To this, Launcelot, who evidently, like the Grave- 
 digger in Hamlet, understands, .after a fixshion, the Latin word he uses, rejoins, " But I pr.ay you, ergo, old man, ergo, 
 I beseech you, talk you of joung Master Launcelot," i. e., ' And therefore, because I am "'your worship" and he is 
 my friend, you should speak of him as Master Launcelot.' — White. 
 
 * Father. — Twice Launcelot calls Gobbo father, and yet the old man drn'S not even suspect with whom he is 
 talking; the reason of which is the ancient custom, almost universal .among the peasantry, of calling all old people 
 father or mother. — White.
 
 24 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Launcelot, your boy that was, j'our son that is, 
 your child tliat shall be. 
 
 Gob. I cannot think _you are my son. 
 
 Laun. I know not what I shaU think of that; 
 but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and, I am 
 sure, Margery, your wife, is my mother. 
 
 Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be 
 sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own 
 flesh and blood. Lord ! worshipp'd might he 
 be! what a beard hast thou got: thou liast got 
 more hair on thy chin, than Dobbin, my phill- 
 horse' has on his tail. 
 
 Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's 
 tail grows backward: I am sure he had more 
 hair of his tail, than I have of my face, when I 
 last saw him. 
 
 Gob. Lord ! how art thou chang'd ! How 
 dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought 
 him a present. How 'gree you now ? 
 
 Laun. 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 mas- 
 ter's a very Jew: give him a present! give him 
 a halter: I am famish'd 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. '•* — rare 
 fortune! here comes the man: — to him, father; 
 for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. 
 
 Enter Bassaxio, luith Leoxardo, 
 Followers. 
 
 and 
 
 Bass. You mn}^ do so ; — but let it be so hasted, 
 that supper be ready at the farthest by five of 
 the clock. See ihese letters delivered: put the 
 liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come 
 anon to my lodging. [Exit a Servant. 
 
 Laun. To him, father. 
 
 Gob. God bless your Avor.ship I 
 
 Bass. Gramercy. AVould'st thou aught with 
 me? 
 
 Gob. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy. — 
 
 Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's 
 man, that would, sir, — as my father shall specify. 
 
 Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one 
 would say, to serve — 
 
 Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I 
 serve the Jew, and have a desire, — as my 
 father shall specify. 
 
 Gob. His master and he (saving your wor- 
 ship's reverence) are scarce cater-cousins. 
 
 Latcn. To be brief, the very truth is, that the 
 Je\V having done me wrong, doth cause me, — 
 as my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall 
 fruti fy unto j'ou. 
 
 Gob. I have here a di.sh of doves,^ that I 
 would bestow upon your worship ; and my 
 suit is, — 
 
 Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent' 
 to myself, as j'our lordship shall know by this 
 lionest old man; and, though I say it, though 
 old man, yet, poor man, my father. 
 
 Bass. One speak for both. — What would you ? 
 
 Laun. Serve you, sir. 
 
 Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. 
 
 Bass. I know thee well: thou hast obtaiu'd 
 thy suit. 
 Shylock, thy ma.ster, 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. 
 
 Laun. 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. 
 
 Bass. 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 
 
 [To his Followers. 
 More guarded' than his fellows' ; see it done. 
 
 Laun. Father, in. — I cannot get a service, — 
 no ; — I have ne'er a tongue in my head. — 
 [Looks on his palni.1 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, 
 aleven^" 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 sim- 
 ple 'scapes ! Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's 
 a good wench for this gear. — Father, come ; I'll 
 take my leave of tlie Jew in the twinkling of an 
 eye. [Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo. 
 
 ' Phill-horse — thill-horsc, shaft-horse. Phil or fill is the term in .ill the midland counties,— ?/a?i! would not be 
 understood. — Hap.ris. 
 
 ^ Set up my rest — determined. 
 
 3 I will run as fur as God has any ground.— To underst.ind tht' .Tppmpriatcness of these words, we must 
 remember that in Venice it was not easy to find ground enough to run upon. — IItdson. 
 
 * A dish o/dores. — This was a common Italian present. 
 ' Impertinent. — Launcelot means to say pertinent. 
 
 ^ The old proverb.— It is uncertain what proverb Is here alluded to. White s.".y.s, '-from the text it would 
 soem to have been, ' lie who hath God's grace hath enough 
 ' Guarded — ornamented. 
 
 * Table. — Table, in the language of fortune-tellers, is the p.alm of the hand. 
 
 9 }Ven. if any jnan in Italy lutve a fairer table., which doth offer to sivear upon a hook. — The construction 
 is, 'Well, if any man in Italy which doth offer to swear upon a book have a fairer table," — the e.xpression being of 
 that pleonastic form (for 'any man") which is common among the uncultivated, as 'any man that breathes," 'any 
 man that walks on shoe leather," &c., &c. After having thus admired the fairness of his 'table," Launcelot breaks 
 off to predict his good fortune. — Whitk. 
 
 '" Aleven. — Aleven was a vulg.arism for eleven.— Vt iwi^. 
 
 " In peril of my life with the edge of a feather-hed. — A cant phrase to signify the danger of marrying. — 
 Waeburtox. ■■ ^ ■ ■
 
 THE IklERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 25 
 
 Ba,ss. I pray tliee, ?ood Leonardo, think on this. 
 These things being boiiglit, and orderly bestow'd, 
 Return in haste ; for I do feast to-night 
 My best esteem'd acquaintance", liie thee; go. 
 
 Leonardo. My best endeavours shall be done 
 herein. [Exewit all but Leonardo. 
 
 Enter Gratiaxo. 
 
 Gia. "Where is your master ? 
 Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. 
 
 [Exit Leonardo. 
 Gra. Siguior Bassanio! 
 
 lie-enter Bassanio, 
 
 Bass. Gratiano. 
 
 Gra. I have a suit to you. 
 
 Bass You have obtain'd it. 
 
 Gra. You must not deny me. I must go with 
 you to Belmont. 
 
 B:(ss. Why, then j-ou 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 f'aulLs, 
 But where thou art not known, why, there tliDy 
 
 show 
 Something too liberal.' — ^Pray thee, take pain 
 To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
 Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild beha- 
 viour, 
 I be misconster'd^ in the place I go to. 
 And lose my hopes. 
 
 Gra. 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 de- 
 murely ; 
 Nay, more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
 Thus with my hat,' and sigh, and saj^ Amen; 
 Use all the observance of civility. 
 Like one well studied in a sad ostent* 
 To please his grandam, never trust me more. 
 
 Bcuss. Well, we shall see your bearing. 
 
 Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not 
 gage me 
 By what we do to-night. ! 
 
 Bass. No, that were a pity i 
 
 I would entreat you rather to put on j 
 
 Your boldest suit of mirth ; for we have friends 
 That purpose merriment. But fare you well, 
 I have some business. 
 
 Gra. And I must to Lorenzo, and the rest ; 
 But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 
 
 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, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
 Lorenzo, who is tliy 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. 
 
 Laun. Adieu ! — tears exhibit my tongue. — 
 Most beautiful pagan, — most sweet Jew! If a 
 Christian did not play the knave, and get^ thee, 
 I am much deceived: bv.t, adieu! these foolish 
 drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit: 
 adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 Jus. Farewell, good Launcelot. — 
 Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
 To be asham'd to be mj- father's child! 
 But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
 I am not to his manners. Lorenzo ! 
 If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife. 
 Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — The same. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and 
 Salanio, 
 
 Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, 
 Disguise us at my lodging, and return 
 All in an hour. 
 
 Gra. We have not made good preparation. 
 Solar. We have not spoke us yet of torch- 
 
 bearers.° 
 Solan. 'Tis vile, imless it may be quaintly 
 order'd. 
 And better, in my mind, not undertook. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two 
 hours 
 To furnish us. — 
 
 Enter Launcelot, with a Letter. 
 
 Friend Launcelot, what's the news ? 
 
 Laun. An it shall please you to break up this, 
 it shall seem to signify. [Giving the letter. 
 
 Lor. I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand ; 
 And whiter than the paper it writ on. 
 Is the fair hand that Avrit. 
 
 Gra. Love-news, in faith. 
 
 Laun. By your leave, sir. 
 
 Lor. Whither goest thou? 
 
 Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the 
 Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the 
 Christian. 
 
 Lor. Hold here, take this. — Tell gentle Jessica 
 I will not fail her: — speak it privately; 
 Go. — [Exit Launcelot. 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? 
 I am provided of a torch-bearer. 
 
 Salar. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. 
 
 1 Liberal — coarse. 
 
 ' while gritce is saying, hood mine eyes 
 
 Thus icith my hat. 
 
 It W.1S formerly the custom to wear the hat at me.als. 
 *, Ostent — appearance. 
 
 ^ Jnscon8ter''d — misconstrued. 
 
 * Get — beset. 
 
 ' J^ot spoke us yet of torch-bearers— not yet bespoken torch-bearers.
 
 26 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Falan. And so will I. 
 
 Lor. Meet me, and Gratiano, 
 
 At Gratiano's lodgintr some hour hence. 
 
 Salar. 'Tis good we do so. 
 
 [Exeunt Salarixo and Salaxio. 
 
 Gra. "Was not that latter from fair Jessica ? 
 
 Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath 
 directed 
 How I shall take her from her father's house ; 
 What frold, and jewels, she is furtiish'd with ; 
 "What pap,e'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 loot, 
 Unless she do it under tliis excuse. 
 That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 
 Come, go with me: peruse tiiis as thou jroest. 
 Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The same. — Before Siiylock's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Shylock and Lauxcelot. 
 
 Shy. "V\'ell, thou shalt see ; thy ej'es 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! 
 
 L'lun. Why, Jessica ! 
 
 Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee 
 
 call. 
 Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me I 
 could do nothing without bidding. 
 
 Enter Jessica. 
 
 Ji-.s. Call you? What is your will? 
 
 Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica . 
 There are my keys. — But wherefore should I go 7 
 I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : 
 But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon 
 Tlie 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 to-night. 
 
 Laun. I beseech you. sir, go: my young master 
 doth expect jour reproacli. 
 
 Shy. So do I his. 
 
 Laun. 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. 
 
 Shy. 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-ucck'd fifo,^ 
 Clamber not you up to the casements then, 
 
 J My nose fell a bleedin/j on Black Mondittj ^us^.— Clee.ling: .it the noso w.ns formerly thoiisrlit to be ominous. 
 Stow, the Chronicler, says Black Monday cot its name from the following occurrence. On April 14th. 13C0 (Kastei 
 Monday), Edward III., "with his host, lay before the city of Paris: which day was full dark of mist and hail, amj 
 so bitter cold, that many men died on their horses" backs with the cold." 
 
 2 F>fe.—'Y\\Q fife does not mean the instrument, but the person who played on it. So in Barn.aby r.ich's 
 Aphorisms at the end of his Irish Hubbub, 161S: "A Jffc is a wry-ncckt musician, for ho alw.ays looks away from 
 his instrumer.t." — Coswell.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 27 
 
 Nor thrust your head into tho public street 
 To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd laces ; 
 But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements : 
 Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
 My sober house. — By Jacob's staff, I swear, 
 I have no mind of feastino; forth to-night; 
 But I will go. — Go 3^ou before me, sirrah: 
 Say I will come. 
 
 Laun. I will go before, sir. — Mistress, look out 
 at window, for all this ; 
 
 Thei-e .will come a Christian b}-, 
 
 Will be worth a Jewes' eye." [Exit. 
 
 Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring? 
 ha! 
 
 Jes. His words were. Farewell, Mistress ; 
 nothing else. 
 
 SJnj. 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 borrow'd purse. — Well, Jessica, go in: 
 Perhaps T will return immediately. 
 Do as I bid you; shut doors after you: 
 'Fast bind, fast find.' 
 A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [ExU. 
 
 Jes. Farewell; andif my fortune be not cross'd, 
 I have a lather, you a daughter, lost. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Gratiaxo and Salarino, maiqued. 
 
 Gra. This is the pent-houje, under whic'.i 
 Lorenzo 
 Desired us to make a stand. 
 
 Sakir. His hour 
 
 Is almost past. 
 
 Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, 
 For lovers ever run before the clock. 
 
 Salar. 01 ten times fiister Venus' pigeons* fly 
 To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are 
 
 wont 
 To keep obliged faitli unforfeited! 
 
 Gra. That over 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 arc. 
 Are wiih more spirit cliased than cujoyVl. 
 How like a younger,^ or a prodigal, 
 The scarfed bark*^ puts from her native bay. 
 Hiigg'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 ! 
 Salar. Here comes Lorenzo : — more of this 
 hereafter. 
 
 Enter LOREXZO. 
 
 Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long 
 
 abode ; 
 Not T, 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. 
 
 SON'G. 
 Hark! hark!'' the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phcehus 'gins arise, 
 His steels to ivaler at tho^e fprirgs 
 
 On chalic\l flowers that lie's; 
 And winking Mar]/-huds begin to ope their golden 
 
 eyes ; 
 With every thing that i^retty is, my lady siveet, 
 arise ; 
 
 Arise, Arise! 
 
 Jessica at the Windoiv, in boy's clothes. 
 
 Jes. Who are .you? Tell me for more certainty; 
 Albeit I'll swear that I do know j'our tongue. 
 Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. 
 Jes. Lorenzo, certain; and my love, indeed. 
 For whom love I so much ? And now who 
 
 knows. 
 But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? 
 
 Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness 
 
 that thou art. 
 Jes. 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 ho}'. 
 
 Lor. Descend, for j^ou must be ray torch-bearer. 
 Jes. What! must I hold a candle to my 
 shames? 
 They in themselves, good sooth, arc too-too" 
 
 light. 
 Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, 
 And I should be obscur'd. 
 
 ' Jeicen — Jews. The term Jew was anciently applied to Hebrew.s of bo'li se.xes. The old Saxon genitive form 
 is here used for the sake of rhythm. 
 
 2 Will be worth a Jewes eye. — White says, this is an allusion to the '•enormous sums extorted by the Front- 
 de-bix,ufi of old from Jews, as ransom for their eyes." 
 
 3 Patch.— Jhii domestic fool was sometimes called a patch; and it is probable that this class was thus named 
 from the patched dress of their vocation. The usurper in 'llamlet,' the "vice of king.'!,"' was "a king of shreds and 
 patclies." It Is probable, that in this way tho word patch came to be nn expression of contempt, as in 'A Mid- 
 summer-Night's Dream," — • 
 
 "A crew of patches, rude mechanicals."' 
 
 Shylock here uses the word in this sense; just as we say still, cro.%t-putch. — Kxigiit. 
 
 * Venus' pigeon.t. — Venus' pigeons, I apprehend, means the doves by which her chariot is drawn. — Eoswelu 
 ^ Younger — youngling. 
 
 * The scarfed htn-k — the vessel decorated with flags. — Steevens. 
 
 ' ILtrk ! hurlc! &C. — This beautiful song is transferred from " Cymbeline." It was customary, even in 
 Shakespeare's time, to introduce a sons in this place, as the old 'prompt-book' shows. 
 
 * 7"oo-<oO.— This is an ohl intensive form of too.
 
 28 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Lor. So aro you, sweet, 
 
 Eveu in tlie lovely garnish of a boy. 
 But come at once ; 
 
 For tlie close night dotli play the run-away 
 And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. 
 
 Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
 
 "With some more ducats, and be witli you straight. 
 
 [Exit, from the Windoio. 
 
 Gra. Now, by my hood,' a Gentile, and no 
 Jew.'^ 
 
 Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily ; 
 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of Iier; 
 And fair slie is, if that mine eyes be true; 
 And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; 
 And therefore, like lierself, wise, fair, and true, 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 
 
 Eater Jessic.-i. 
 
 What, art thou come ? — On, gentlemen ; away ! 
 Our masquing males by this time for us stay. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Belmont. — An Apartment in Porti.a.'s 
 House. 
 
 Flourish of Cornets. The Prince of Arragon, 
 Portia, and their Attendants discovered. 
 
 For. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble 
 
 Prince: 
 If you choose that wherein I am contain'd. 
 Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd ; 
 But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
 You must be gone from lience immediately. 
 Arragon. I am enjoin"d by oatli to observe 
 
 three things: 
 First, never to unfold to any one 
 "Which casket 'twas I chose: nest, if I fail 
 Of the riglit casket, never in my life 
 To woo a maid in way of marriage: 
 Lastly, if I do fail in fortune of my choice. 
 Immediately to leave you and be gone. 
 
 For. To these injunctions every one doth 
 
 swear. 
 That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 
 Ar. And so have I address'd' me: Fortune 
 
 now 
 To my heart's hope ! — Gold, silver, and base lead. 
 Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath: 
 You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. 
 "What says the golden chest? ha ! let me see: — 
 Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. 
 "What many men desire: — that many may be 
 
 meant 
 By' the fool multitude, that choose by show. 
 Not learning more tlian the fond eye doth teach ; 
 "Which pries not to tli' interior, but, like the 
 
 martlet. 
 Builds in the weather, on the outward wall, 
 Even in the force" and road of casualty. 
 I will not choose what many men desire. 
 Because I will not jump*^ with common spirits, 
 And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
 "Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
 
 Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: 
 Who chooseth me shall get as mwh as he deserves • 
 And well said too; for who shall go about 
 To cozen Fortune, and be honourable, 
 "Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
 To wear an undeserved dignity. 
 Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. 
 I will assume desert: — Give me a key for thi.s, 
 And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 
 
 For. Too long a pause for that wliich you find 
 there. 
 
 Ar. "What's here? the portrait of a blinking 
 idiot, 
 Presenting me a schedule? I will read it 
 How much unlike art thou to Portia I 
 How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings! 
 Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves. 
 Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? 
 Is that my prize ? are my deserts no better ? 
 
 For To offend, and judge, are distinct offices, 
 And of opposed natures. 
 
 Ar. "What is here ? 
 
 " The fire seven times tried this: 
 Seven times tried thatjudrpnent is, 
 That did never choose amiss. 
 Som". there be that shadows kiss ; 
 Such have hut a shadow^ s bliss. 
 There be fools alire, I wis, 
 Silvered o'er ; and so was this." 
 
 Still more fool I shall appear 
 
 By the time I linger here: 
 
 With one fool's head I came to woo; 
 
 But I go away with two. — 
 
 Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath, 
 
 Patiently to bear my wroth.' 
 
 [Exeunt Arragox a7id his Attendants. 
 For. Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. 
 0, these deliberate fools, when they do choose, 
 They have the ^visdom by their wit to lose. 
 Aer. The ancient saying is no heresy : — 
 Hanging and wiving goes bj^ destiny. 
 
 1 ybic, by my Aooe^ —Malone and Stcpvens snppose Gratiano to swear by the hood of his masquins dress— a 
 very strange thin? to swear by. They may be right. But I had .always understood the ancient oath by my 
 hood,' here and elsewliere to be, 'by my self,' /. «., 'by my estate '—manhood, kinghood, knighthood, or whatever 
 the hood or estate of the protestor might be.— White. 
 
 -A Gentile and no Jew.— A }cs,t arising from the ambiguity of 'Gentile,' which signifies both a heathen and 
 one well born. — Johnson. 
 
 3 Addressed— prepavei. * ^y— for. = i^orce- power. ^ ./i<OT_p— agree. ' IFro^A— misfortune.
 
 THE MERCHA'N'T OF VENICE. 
 
 29 
 
 Enter Balthazar. 
 
 Bal. Where is my lady ? 
 
 For. Here; what ■would my lord?' 
 
 Bal. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
 A young Venetian, one tliat comes before 
 To signify Ih' approaching of his lord. 
 From whom he bringeth sensible re-greets;" 
 To wit, (besides commends, and courteous 
 
 breath,) 
 Gifts of rich value ; yet I have not seen 
 So likely an embassador of love. 
 A day in April never came so sweet, 
 To show how costly Summer was at hand, 
 As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 
 
 For. No more, I pray thee • I am half afeard 
 Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee. 
 Thou spend'sL such high-day wit in praising 
 
 him. — 
 Come, come. Nerissa ; for I long to see 
 Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly. 
 
 Ker Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Venice. — A Street. 
 Enter Salauino and Salaxio. 
 
 Salar. Whj', man, I saw Bassanio under sail: 
 With him is Gratiauo gone along; 
 And in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is not. 
 
 Sedan. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd 
 the Duke, 
 Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. 
 
 Salar. He came too late, the ship was under 
 sail: 
 But there the Duke was given to understand. 
 That in a gondola were seen together 
 Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. 
 Besides, Antonio certified the Duke, 
 They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 
 
 Salan. I never heard a passion so coufus'd, 
 So strange, outrageous, and so variable. 
 As the dog Jew did luter iu the streets: 
 '• My daughter ! — my ducats! — my daughter! 
 Fled with a Christian ? — my Christian ducats ! 
 Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 
 A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats. 
 Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my 
 
 daughter!" 
 Let good Antonio look he keep his day. 
 Or he shall pay for this. 
 
 Salar. Marry, well remember'd. 
 
 I reason'd^ with a Frenchman yesterday. 
 Who told me, in the narrow seas that part 
 The French and English, there miscarried 
 A vessel of our country, richly fraught. 
 
 I thought upon Antonio when he told me. 
 And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 
 
 Salan. You were best to tell Antonio what 
 you hear; 
 Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 
 
 Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. 
 I saw Bassanio and Antonio part. 
 Bassanio told him he would make some speed 
 Of his return : he auswer'd — " Do not so ; 
 Slubber* not business for my sake, Bassanio, 
 But stay the very riping of the time. 
 And for the Jew's bond, which he hath of me, 
 Let it not enter in your mind of love.* 
 Be merry and employ your chiefest thoughts 
 To courtship, and such fair ostents of love 
 As shall conveniently become you there." 
 And even there, his eye being big with tears, 
 Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 
 And, with aflection wondrous sensible. 
 He wrung Bassanio's hand ; and so they parted. 
 
 Salan. I think he only loves the world for him. 
 I pray thee let us go, and find him out. 
 And quicken his embraced heaviness^ 
 With some delight or other. 
 
 Salar. Do we so. [E.ceunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Genoa. — A Garden. 
 Enter Launcelot and Jessica. 
 
 Laun. Yes, truly; for, look vou, the sins of 
 the father are to be laid upon the children ; 
 therefore, I promise }'ou, I fear you.' I was 
 always plain with you, and so now I speak my 
 agitation of the matter", therefore, be of good 
 cheer, for, truly, I think, you are damn'd. 
 There is but one hope in it that can do you any 
 
 Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ? 
 
 Laun. Marry, you may partly hojie that you 
 are not the Jew's daughter. 
 
 Jes. So the sins of my mother should be vis- 
 ited upon me. 
 
 Laun. Truly, then, I fear you are damned both 
 by father and mother : thus when I shun Scylla, 
 vour father, I fall into Cliarybdis,' your mother. 
 Well, you are gone both ways. 
 
 Jes. I shall be sav'd by my husband ; he hath 
 made me a Christian. 
 
 Laun. Truly, the more to blame he : we were 
 Christians enow before ; e'en as many as could 
 well live one by another. This making of Chris- 
 tians will raise the price of hogs ; if we grow all 
 to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a 
 rasher on the coals for monej'. 
 
 Jes. I'll teU my husband, Launcelot, what you 
 say: here he comes. 
 
 ' What icoiild my lord T — A sportive rejoinder to the .abrupt exclamation of the messenger. — Dyce. 
 
 2 Re-greet«~SA\nta.tion%. 3 ^etiwuV/— discoursM. ■• Slubber— s\\^\\\., neglect. 
 
 * Yourmind of love. — 'Your mind of love,' in the phraseology of the time, is equivalent to your loving mind. — 
 Halhwell. 
 
 * Embraced lieavineiix. — The heaviness which he indulges, and is found of. — Edwakds. 
 ' I fear you — I fear for you. So in " Richard III:"' 
 
 '•The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy, 
 And his physicians/'ea/" him mightily."' 
 
 8 Scylla * * * Charybdis. — It is hardly necessary to say that these names were applied, by the ancients, to the 
 rocky shores of the strait that separates Sicily from Italy, the passage of which was greatly dreaded by mariners.
 
 30 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo. 
 
 Lor. I shall grow jealous of you, sliortly, 
 Laiincelot, if you tlius get my wife into corners. 
 
 Je-5. 2Say, you need not fear us, Lorenzo : 
 Launcelot and I are out. He tells me flath-, 
 there is no mercy for me in Heaven, because I 
 am a Jew's daughter; and he say.s, you are no 
 good member of the commonwealth, for in con- 
 verting Jews to Christians you raise the price 
 of pork. 
 
 Lor. T shall answer that to the common- 
 wealth. — 
 Go in, sirrah : bid them prepare for dinner. 
 
 Laun. That is done, sir; they have all stom- 
 achs. 
 
 Lor. Goodly lord, what a wit-snapper are j-ou! 
 then, bid them prepare dinner. 
 
 Laun. That is done too, sir, onh-, cover is the 
 word. 
 
 JjOr. Will you cover then, sir ? 
 
 Laun. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty. 
 
 Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion? 
 "Wilt thou show the wliole wealth of thv wit in 
 an instant? I pray thee, understand a plain 
 man in_ his plain meaning; go to tliv fellows, 
 bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and 
 we will come in to dinner. 
 
 Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be serv'd in ; 
 for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your 
 coming in to dinner, sir, whj', let it be as humours 
 and conceits shall govern. [Exit Launcelot. 
 
 Lor. 0, dear discretion, how his words are 
 suited!' 
 The fool hath planted in his memory 
 An arm}^ of good words; and I do know" 
 A many fools, that stand in better place, 
 Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word 
 Defy the matter. —Let us go to dinner. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV — Venice. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Salanio and Salarixo. 
 
 Sa'an. Now, what news on the Eialto ? 
 
 Salar "Why, yet it lives there unchecked, that 
 Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wreck'd on 
 the narrow seas; the Goodwins,^ I think they 
 call the place: a very dangerous flat, and fatal, 
 where the carcases of many a t.ill ship lie buried, 
 as they say, if my gossip, report, be an honest 
 woman of lier word. 
 
 Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in 
 that, as ever knapp'd ginger.'' or made her neigh- 
 bours believe she wept for the death of a third 
 husband. But it is true, without any slips of 
 
 proli.\-ity, or crossing the plain high-way of talk, 
 that the good Antonio, the hone.st Antonio, — 
 0, that I had a title good enough to keep his 
 name company! — 
 
 Salar. Come, tlic full stop. 
 
 Salan. Ha ! — what say'ist thou ? — Why, the 
 end is, he hath lost a ship. 
 
 Salar. I would it might prove the end of his 
 losses. 
 
 Salan. Let me say Amen betimes, lest tlie 
 Devil cross my prayer: for here lie comes in 
 the likeness of a Jew. — How now, Shylock ? 
 what news among the merchants ? 
 
 Enter Shylock. 
 
 Shy. Tou knew, none so well, none so well 
 as you, of my daughter's flight. 
 
 Salar. Thai's certain : L for my part, knew 
 the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. 
 
 Salan. .\nd Shylock, for his own part, knew 
 the bird was fledg'd ; and then, it is the com- 
 plexion of them all to leave the dam. 
 
 Shy. She is damn'd for it. 
 
 Salar. That's certain, if the Devil may be her 
 judge. 
 
 Shy. Mj- own fle-^h and blood to rebel ! 
 
 Saltr. But tell us, do you hear whether An- 
 tonio have had any loss at sea or no ? 
 
 Shy. There I have another bad match : a 
 bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his 
 head on the Eialto : — a beggar, that us'd to 
 come so smug upon the mart. — Let him look to 
 his bond: he was wont to call nie usurer; — let 
 him look to his bond: he was wont to lend 
 money for a Christian courtesy; — let him look 
 to his bond. 
 
 Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt 
 not take his flesh : what's that good for ? 
 
 Shy. To bait fish withal: if it will feed noth- 
 ing else, it will feed my revenge He hath dis- 
 grac'd me, and hinder'd me half a million ; 
 laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, 
 scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, 
 cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and 
 what's his reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not 
 a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew hands, organs, 
 dimensions, senses, aiTections, passions ? fed 
 with the same food, liurt with the same weap- 
 ons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the 
 same means, warmed and cooled by the same 
 Winter and Summer, as a Christian is? If j'ou 
 prick us. do we not bleed ? if you tickle us, do 
 we not laugh ? if j'ou poison us, do we not die ? 
 and if 3-ou wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If 
 we are like you in the rest, we will resemble 
 you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what 
 
 ' Suited. — Suited means united to each ofher, arranircd.— Coswei.l. 
 
 2 And I do know, &o.— Probably an allusion to the h.ibit of wit-snapping, the constant straining,' to speak out of 
 the common way, which then filled the highest places of learning and of the State.— HuDSo.v. 
 
 3 The Good icin.i.— The popular notion of the Goodwin Sand was, not only that it was '-a very dangerous flat 
 and fat.ll," but that it possessed a "voracious and ingurgitating property; so that, should a ship of the largest size 
 strike on it, in a few days it would be so wholly swallowed up by these quick sands, that no part of it would be left 
 to be seen." — Knioiit. 
 
 * Jinajyfd gi7iffer.—'Ki\ap' is plainly the same word as 'snap': •• he hath broken the bowe, he hath 
 
 knapped the spear in sonder, and brent tiie charrets in the fyre."— (Psalm xlv. Miles Coverd.ile"s translation, 15-35.) 
 As ginger itself is a tough root, a ginger cuke must be meant, and i)robutily the sort called even now, 'ginger snap.' 
 
 — WUITE.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 31 
 
 is his humility? revenc^^e. If a Christian wron;5 
 a Jew, -what should his sufiferance he by Chris- 
 tian example ? why, revenge. The villainy you 
 teach me, I will execute ; and it shall go hard 
 but I will better the instruction. 
 
 Salan. Here comes another of the tribe : a 
 third cannot be match'd, unless the Devil him- 
 self turn Jew. [Exeunt Salanio and Salarixo. 
 
 Enter Tubal. 
 
 SJnj. How now, T\ibal, what news from 
 Genoa? hast thou found my daii^-'hter ? 
 
 Tubal. I often came where I did hear of her, 
 but cannot find her. 
 
 Shy. Why, there! there, there, there I a dia- 
 mond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in 
 Frankfort. The curse never fell upon our na- 
 tion till now: — I never felt it till now: — two 
 thousand ducats in that: and other precious, 
 precious jewels. — I would, my daughter were 
 dead at my foot, and the jewels in her car 1 
 would she were hears'd at my foot, and the 
 ducats in her coffin ! Xo news of them ? — Why, 
 so ; — and I know not what's spent in the search : 
 Why tlien — loss upon loss ! tiio thief gone with 
 so much, and so much, to find the thief and no 
 satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring, 
 but what liglits o' my shoulders ; no sighs, but 
 o' my breathing; no tears, but o' my shedding. 
 
 Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too ; Anto- 
 nio, as I heard in Genoa. — 
 
 Shy. What, what, what ? ill luck, ill luck ? 
 
 Tub — hath an argosy cast away, coming 
 from Tripoli s. 
 
 Shy. I thank God! I thank God! Is it true? 
 is it true ? 
 
 Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that 
 escaped the wreck. 
 
 Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal. — Good news, 
 good news! ha! ha I — Where? in Genoa? 
 
 Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I 
 heard, one night, fourscore ducats. 
 
 Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me. I shall 
 never see rr.y gold again. Fourscore ducats at 
 a sitting! foLirscore ducats! 
 
 Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors 
 in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot 
 choose but break. 
 
 Shy. I am very glad of it. I'll plague him ; 
 I'll torture him: I am glad of it. 
 
 Tub. One of ihem showed me a ring, that he 
 had of j'our daughter for a monkey. 
 
 Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, 
 j Tubal; it was my turquoise:' I had it of Leah, 
 when I was a bachelor: I would not have given 
 it for a wilderness of moukies." 
 
 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 
 Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true: Go, 
 Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight 
 before. I will have the heart of him if he for- 
 feit; for were he out of Venice, I can make 
 what merchandize I will. Go, Tubal, and meet 
 me at our synagogue: go, good Tubal; at our 
 synagogue. Tubal. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 Turquoise. — .\. turquoise is a precious stone, found in the veins of the mountains on the confines of Persi.i, to 
 the east, subject to the Tartars. — Steevkns. 
 
 The turquoise is, in Itself, a jewel of no very 5rrc.1t value. Shylock tre.isnred it as a maiden gift from his dead 
 wife, Leah. Steevens mentions many superstitious qualities imputed to this stone. 
 
 2 A icilr/erness of moiiketjs. — What a floe Hebraism is implied in this expression. — IIazlitt.
 
 32 
 
 THE MERCHAXT OF VEXICE. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ScEN'E I. — Belmont. — An Apartment in Portia's 
 House. 
 
 Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa. and their 
 Attendants, discovered. The Caskets are set out. 
 
 For. I pray you tarrj' : pause a day or two, 
 Before you liazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
 I lose your company: therefore, forbear a while. 
 There's something tells me. (but it is not love,) 
 I would not lose you ; and you know yourself 
 Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
 But lest you should not understand me well. 
 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought.) 
 I would detain you here some month or two, 
 Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
 How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; 
 So will I never be: so may vou miss me : 
 But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin. — 
 That I had been forsworn. — 
 T speak too long; but 'tis to peize' the time, 
 To eke it, and to draw it out in length, 
 To stay you from election. 
 
 Bass. Let me choose ; 
 
 For. as I am. I live upon the rack. 
 
 For. Upon the rack, Bassanio ? then confess 
 T\'liat treason there is mingled with your love. 
 
 Bass. Xoue, but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
 Whicli makes me fear th' enjoying of my love. 
 There may as well be amity and life 
 'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 
 But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 
 
 For. Away then. I am lock'd in one of them : 
 
 If you do love me, you will find me out 
 
 Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof — 
 
 Let music sound, while he doth make his choice; 
 
 Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,' 
 
 Fading in music: that the comparison 
 
 May stand more proper, my ej-e shall be the 
 
 stream. 
 And watery death-bed for him. Now he goes, 
 With no less presence,' but with much more love. 
 Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
 The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
 To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice: 
 The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 
 
 With bleared visages, come forth to view 
 The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules I 
 Live thou, I live. — "With much more dismay 
 I view the fight, than thou that mak'st the fray. 
 
 A Song, whilst Bassan'io comments on the caskets 
 to himself. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tell me, where is fancy* bred. 
 Or in the heart, or in the head? 
 How begot, how nourished ? 
 B'-ply, reply. 
 
 It is engendered in the eyes. 
 With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
 In the cradle ivhere it lies. 
 L-t Its all ring fancy's knell ; 
 I'll begin it. — Ding, dong, hell. 
 All. Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 Bass. So may the outward shows^ be least 
 
 themselves: 
 The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
 In law. what plea so tainted and corrupt, 
 But, being season'd with a gracious" voice, 
 Obscures the show of evil? la religion, 
 What damned error, but some sober brow 
 Will bless it, and approve it with a text. 
 Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 
 There is no vice so simple, but assumes 
 Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 
 Thus ornament is but the guiled' shore 
 To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf 
 Veiling an Indian beauty: — in a word, 
 The seeming truth which cunning times put on 
 To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy 
 
 gold. 
 Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee. 
 Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 
 'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre 
 
 lead 
 Which rather tlireat'nest than dost promise 
 
 aught. 
 Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence ; 
 And here choose I. Joy be the consequence I 
 
 1 Peise. — To peize, is to weigh, or balance; and fisruratively, to keep in suspense, to delay. — Henley. 
 " A nican-like end. — Alluding to the opinion which lone; prevailed, that the swan uttered a jihiintive musical 
 sound at the approach of death. There is something so touching in this superstition that one feels loth to be 
 undeceived. — TIuDsox. 
 
 3 Witk no less presence — with the same dignity of mien. — Johnsox. 
 
 yow he goes. 
 With no less presence, &c. 
 
 Laomedon, the founder of Troy, hired Neptune to build the walls, and Apollo, meantime, to keep bis flocks on 
 Mount Id.x The gods having finished their tasks, Laomedon refuses their wages. Neptune, enraged, sends a sea- 
 monster to ravage the country about Troy. The Trojans, by commami of an oracle, sacrifice from time to time a 
 maiden to the monster, to appease him and his offended master. Among others, Hesione. daughter of Laomedon, 
 is selected by lot for this purpose. But at this time Hercules, or Alcides (the patronymic), returning from his 
 expedition against the Amazons, slays the mon.ster and rescues the maiden. Such is the myth to which the poet 
 alludes. 
 
 ^ Fancy. — The poet, in common with other writers of the time, often nsos fancy for lore — IltiDsox. 
 
 5 So may the outward shores. itc.^Bassanio has made up his mind whilst the music has proceeded, and then 
 follows out the course of his thoughts in words. — K.n'Ight. 
 
 « Gracious — pleasing. ' Guiled— deceiving.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 For. How all the other passions fleet to air, 
 As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, 
 And shuddering fear and green-ey'd jealousy. 
 
 love ! be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 
 
 In measui'e rain thy joy;' scant this excess- 
 
 1 feel too ranch thy blessing ; make it les^, 
 For fear I surfeit 1 
 
 Bass. "What find There? 
 
 [^Opening the leaden c-iskct. 
 Fair Portia's counterfeit !^ What derai-god 
 Hath come so near creation? ilove these eyes? 
 Or whether, riding on tlio balls of mine, 
 Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips, 
 Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder sucli sweet friends. Here, in 
 
 her hairs. 
 The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
 A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men. 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs ; but her eyes! — 
 How could he see to do them ? having made one, 
 Methinks. it should have power to steal both his, 
 And leave itself unfurnish'd." yet look, how far 
 The substance of my praise doth wrong this 
 
 shadow 
 In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
 Doth limp behind the substance. — Here's the 
 
 scroll, 
 The continent and summary of my fortune. 
 
 " You that choose not by Ihe view. 
 Chavce as fair, and choose as true! 
 
 Since this fortune falls to you, 
 Be content and >ei-k no new. 
 If you he ludl pleas' d with fhi'', 
 And hold ij our fortune for your bliis, 
 Tarn you vjhere your lady is. 
 And claim her ivith a loving kiss.''' 
 
 A gentle scroll. — Fair VmXj, by your leave ; 
 I come by note, to give, and to receive. 
 
 [^Kissing he7: 
 Like one of two contending in a prize. 
 That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes. 
 Hearing applause, and universal shout, 
 Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt 
 Whether those peals of praise be his or no; 
 So, thrice fitir lady, stand I, even so, 
 As doubtful whetlier what I see be true, 
 Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. 
 
 For. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I 
 
 stand, 
 Such as I am: though, for myself alone, 
 I would not be ambitions in my wish. 
 To wish myself much better; yet for j'ou 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself, 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
 
 more rich. 
 That only to stand high in your account, 
 I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends. 
 Exceed account : but the full sum of me 
 Is sum of nothing; which, to term in gross, 
 Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd : 
 
 • liai7i thijjoij. — I bcliove .Sliakespo.iro .illiuloil tn the well known proverb, it cannot rain, hut it jiour.'^. — 
 Steevens. 
 
 - Counterfeit — likcnes.s. Hamlet c.iUs the pictures of his father ami iinele "the eoiinterfeit presentment of 
 two brothers." 
 
 3 UnfurniHlCd — incomplete, not furnished with its companion or fellow eye. — M. Masox. 
 
 3
 
 34 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Happy in tliis, slie is not jet so old 
 But she may learn ; happier than this, 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn; 
 Happiest of ah in that her gentle sphit 
 Commits itself" to yours to be directed, 
 As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
 
 Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all 
 words. 
 
 Aer. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
 That have stood by, and seen our wishes pros- 
 per, 
 To cry, good joy. Good joy. my lord, and lady 1 
 
 Gra. My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, 
 I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; 
 For, I am sure, you can wish none from me :' 
 And, when your honours mean to solemnize 
 The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, 
 Even at ihat time I may be married too. 
 
 Bass. "With all my heart, BO thou canst get a 
 wile. 
 
 Gra. I thank your lordship, you have got mo 
 one. 
 My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours • 
 You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid f 
 You lov'd, T lov'd ; for mterraission^ 
 No more pertains to me, my lord, than j'ou. 
 Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, 
 And so did mine, too, as the matter falls ; 
 For wooing here, until I sweat again. 
 And swearing, till my very roof was dry 
 "With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 
 I got a promise of this fair one here. 
 To have her love, provided that your fortune 
 Achiev'd her mistress. 
 
 For. Is this true, Nerissa ? 
 
 Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. 
 
 Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? 
 
 Gra. Yes, 'faith, my lord. 
 
 Bass. Our feast shall be much honour'd in 
 your marriage. 
 
 Gra. But who comes here ? Lorenzo, and his 
 infidel ? 
 "What! and my old Venetian friend, Salerio? 
 
 Enter Lokenzo, Jkssica, and Salerio. 
 
 Bass. Lorenzo, and Palerio, welcome hither. 
 If that the j-outh of my new interest here 
 Have power to bid you welcome. — By your 
 
 leave 
 I bid my very friends and countrymen. 
 Sweet Portia, welcome. 
 
 For So do I, my lord : 
 
 They are entirely welcome. 
 
 Lor. I thank your honour. — For my part, my 
 lord. 
 My purpose was not to have seen j-ou here ; 
 But meeting with Salerio by the way 
 
 ITe did entreat mc, past all saying nay. 
 To come with him along. 
 
 Sul.rio. I did, mj lord, 
 
 And I have reason for it. Siguier Antonio 
 Commends him to j-ou. [Gives Bassanio a letter. 
 
 Ba\s Ere I ope his letter, 
 
 I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. 
 
 t^ale. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; 
 Nor well, unless in mind ; his letter, there, 
 Will show you his estate. 
 
 Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; bid her 
 
 welcome. 
 Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from 
 
 Venice ? 
 How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio ? 
 T know, he will be glad of our success ; 
 "We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 
 Sale. I would you had won the fleece that he 
 
 hath lost I 
 For. There are some shrewd* contents in yon 
 
 same paper, 
 That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek : 
 Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the 
 
 world 
 Could turn so much the constitution 
 Of any constant man. "What, worse and 
 
 worse ? — 
 "With leave, Bassanio; I am half yourself. 
 And I must freely have the half of any thing 
 That this same paper brings you. 
 
 ^0-95. sweet Portia I 
 
 Here are a kw of the unpleasant' st words 
 That ever blotted paper. (Jentle ladj^, 
 When I did first impart my love to you, 
 I freely told you all the wealth I had 
 Ran in my veins — I was a gentleman: 
 And then I told j'ou true ; and yet, dear lady. 
 Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
 How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
 My state was nothing, I should then have told 
 
 you 
 That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, 
 I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, 
 Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy. 
 To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; 
 The paper as the body^ of my friend, 
 And every word in it a gaping wound. 
 Issuing life-blood. — But is it true, Salerio? 
 Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit? 
 From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, 
 And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch 
 Of merchant-marring rocks ? 
 
 Sale. Not one, my lord. 
 
 Besides, it should appear, that if ho had 
 The present money to discharge the Jew, 
 He would not take it. Never did I know 
 A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 
 
 • Yoii can wisli none from me. — That is, none away from inc; none that I shall lose, if j-ou gain it. — Joiixso.v. 
 2 The maid. — Nerissa was no servant-maiil, according to modern notions, but an attend.int friend, as well 
 
 born and bred, perhaps, though not as wealthy, as Portia herself. Sucli a relation was common of old. It existed 
 between Gratiano and Bassanio, whose intercourse is that of equals, and the former of whom is evidently a gentle- 
 man in every sense of the word. Bassanio says to him and Nerissa, "Our feast shall be much honour\l in your 
 marriage." — TV ihte. 
 
 ' Intermission — pause, delay. * Shreicd — cutting, harrowing. 
 
 * Tlie paper as the body. — The expression is somewhat elliptical. '"The paper as the body," means, — the 
 paper resenablee the body, is as the body. — Steevens.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 85 
 
 So keen and p:reecly to confound a man. 
 He plies the Duke at mornins;, and at night, 
 And dolli impeach the freedom of the State, 
 If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, 
 The Duke himseh', and the magnilicoes 
 Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; 
 But none can drive him from the envious plea 
 Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. 
 
 For. Is it your dear friend that is thus in 
 trouble ? 
 
 Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest 
 man. 
 The best condition'd and unwearied spirit 
 In doing courtesies; and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honour more appears 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
 
 For. What sum owes he tlie Jew ? 
 
 Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. 
 
 For. What, no more ? 
 
 Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond : 
 Double six thousand, and then treble that,' 
 Before a friend of this description 
 Shall lose a hair throng] i Bassanio's fault. 
 First go with me to church, and call me wife, 
 And tiien away to Yenice to your friend; 
 For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
 With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times over. 
 My maid Xerissa and myself, mean time, 
 Will live as maids and widows. Come, awa}'! 
 For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. 
 Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer ;° 
 Since you are dear bought, I will love 3-ou 
 
 dear, — 
 But let me hear the letter of your friend. 
 
 Bass. [Reads.] ^' Sweet Bassanio, my ships have 
 all miscarried, mrj creditors grow cruel, my estate 
 is very low, my hand to the Jew is forfeit; and 
 since, in j)aying it, it is impossible I should lire, 
 all djbts are clear d bstween you and I, if I might 
 but see you at my death.^ Notw HI i standing, use 
 your pleamre : if your love do notjyersuade you to 
 come, ht not my letter.'''' 
 
 For. love! despatch all business, and be- 
 gone. 
 Bass. Since I have your good leave to go 
 awa}', 
 I will make haste; but till I come again. 
 No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay. 
 No rest be interposer 'twixt tis twain. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. — A Room in Portia's 
 Hou.se. 
 
 Enter Porti.\, Neiiiss.4., Lorenzo, Jessica, and 
 
 BALTIIAZ.A.R. 
 
 ■ Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your 
 
 presence. 
 You liave a noble and a true conceit 
 Of god-like amity ; which appears most strongly 
 In bearing thus the absence of j-our lord. 
 But, if you knev.' to whom you show tiiis honour. 
 How true a gentleman you send relief, 
 How dear a lover* of my lord your liusband, 
 I know you would be prouder of the work. 
 Than customary bonnt}- can enforce 3"ou. 
 
 For. I never did repent for doing good, 
 Nor shall not now. 
 
 This comes too near the praising of myself; 
 Therefore, no more of it. hear other things. — 
 Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 
 The husbandry and manage of my house. 
 Until my lord's return: for mine own part, 
 I have toward Heaven Ijreath'd a secret vow 
 To live in prayer and contemplation, 
 Only attended by Nerissa here. 
 Until her husband and my lord's return. 
 Tliere is a monastery two miles off. 
 And there we will abide. I do desire you 
 Not to deny this imposition. 
 The which my love, and some necessity. 
 Now lays upon you. 
 
 Lor. Madam, with all my heart: 
 
 I shall obej' you in all fair commands. 
 
 For. My people do already know my mind, 
 And will acknowledge you and Jessica 
 In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 
 So fare you well, till we shall meet again. 
 
 Lor. Fair thoughts, and happy hours, attend 
 on you ! 
 
 Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. 
 
 For. I thank j^oti for your wish, and am well 
 pleas 'd 
 To wish it back on you: fare j-ou well, Jessica. — 
 [E.munt Jessica and Lorenzo. 
 Now, Balthazar, 
 
 As I have ever found thee honest, true. 
 So let me find thee stilL Take this same letter. 
 And use thou all the endeavour of a man, 
 In speed to Padua : see thou render tliis 
 Into ray cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario : 
 And, look, what notes and garments he doth 
 give thee, 
 
 ' And then treble that. Hcylin, 1G31, says that the ducat was worth Cs. Srf. sterling; so that Portia's offer of 
 thirty-six thousand ducats placed about $55,000, or, according to the present value of money, $385,000, at Bassanio's 
 disposal. — White. 
 
 ^ A merry cheer — a merry countenance. 
 
 ' All debts are cleared between you <ind I, if I might but ^ee you at my death. — Mr. Charles Kemble, as stated 
 by Ilnrness, objects to the nomiiiou punctuation of this passage. He would have a period after "you and l,"' and 
 make the following clause, '"if I might but see you at my deatlV an independent senience. The reason given for 
 tlic proposed change is, that the present punctuation implies a want of generosity on Antonio's part, in seeming to 
 make his seeing Bassanio a condition of liis forgiving him his debt. The passage, however, "If I might but see 
 y (ui," etc., does not appear to be added as a j)ositive condition of pardon, but as an after-thought, in a vein of mourn- 
 ful pleasantry and graceful compliment. If this passage were made an independent sentence, e.vprcssive of an 
 earnest wish to see Bassanio, it might be taken as a covert way of stimulating Bassanio to the payment of the debt, 
 and thus the exquisite tenderness and dignity of the whole letter would be much impaired. 
 
 * Lover. — In our author's time this term was applied to those of the same sex who had an esteem for each 
 other. — Maloxe.
 
 THE MERCIIAXT OF AT^NIOE. 
 
 Bring them. I pray tlieo, with imagin'd speed' 
 Unto the Trauect," to tlie common ferry 
 Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in 
 
 words. 
 But get thee gone : I shall be there before thee. 
 
 Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 For. Come on. Xerissa- I have work in iiand 
 That you yet know not of. We'll see our hus- 
 bands, 
 Before they think of us. 
 
 Xer. S^hall they SCO us? 
 
 For. They shall, Xerissa ; but in such a habit, 
 That they shall tiiink we are accomplished 
 Witii that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, 
 When we are both accoutred like young men, 
 I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two. 
 And wear my dagger with the braver grace : 
 And speak between the change of man and boy, 
 With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps 
 Into a matdy stride ; and speak of frays, 
 Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies. 
 How honourable ladies sought my love, 
 Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 
 I could not do withal:^ — then, I'll repent, 
 And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them. 
 And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 
 That men shall swear, I jiave discontinued school 
 Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind 
 A thousand raw tricks of tl:ese bragging Jacks, 
 Which I will practise. 
 
 But come: I'll tell thee all my whole device 
 Wlien I am in my coach, which staj's for us 
 At the Park gate ; and therefore haste away, 
 For we must measure twenty miles to-day. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ScEXE III. — Venice. — A Street. 
 Enter Shylock, Salaxio, Antoxio, and Gaoler. 
 
 Shy. Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of 
 mercy. — 
 This is the fool tliat lends out money gratis. — 
 Gaoler, look to him. 
 
 Ant. Hear me yet, good Sliylock. 
 
 Shy. I'll have my bond; speak not against 
 my bond: 
 I have sworn an oatli that I will have my bond. 
 Thou call'dst me dog before tliou hadst a cause, 
 But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs. 
 The r)uke sliall grant mo justice. — I do wonder, 
 Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond* 
 To come abroad with him at his request. 
 
 Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. 
 
 Shy. I'll have my bond ; I will not hear thee 
 speak : 
 I'll have my bond, and therefore speak no more. 
 I'll not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool. 
 To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
 To Christian intercessors. Follow not; 
 I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond. 
 
 [Exit ShylocIv. 
 
 Salan. It is the most impenetrable cur. 
 That ever kept with men. 
 
 Ant. Let him alone: 
 
 I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
 These griefs and losses have so 'bated me, 
 That I shall hardly spare a pound of fiesh 
 To-morrow to my bloody creditf)r. — 
 Well, Gaoler, on. — Pray God, Bassanio come 
 To see me pay his debt; and then I care not. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT Y 
 
 Scene I. — Venice. — A Court of Justice. 
 
 The Duke, the Magnificoes, Axtoxio,Bassaxio, 
 Gratiaxo, Salarixo. Salaxio, and others, dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 
 
 Ant. Ready, so please your Grace. 
 
 Fake. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to 
 answer 
 A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
 Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
 From an}' dram of mercy. 
 
 Ant. I have heard. 
 
 Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 
 His rigorous course ; but since he stands ob- 
 durate. 
 And that no lawful means can carrv me 
 
 Out of his envy's^ reach, I do oppose 
 M}^ patience to his fury, and am arm'd 
 To suffer with a quietness of spirit 
 The very tyranny and rage of his. 
 
 Fuke. Go, one, and call the Jew into the 
 
 Court. 
 Salan. He's ready at the door. He comes, 
 
 ray lord. 
 Fulce. Make room, and let him stand before 
 our face. — 
 
 Eater Shyloce. 
 
 Shylock. the world thinks, and I think so too. 
 That thou 1)U.', lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
 To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought, 
 Thou'lt show thy mercy, and remorse," more 
 strange. 
 
 ^ Wiffi imrigiii'd speed — with colci-ity like that of imasin.ition. — Steevens. 
 
 ^ Trailed. — Shakespeare most likely obtained this word from some novel to which he resorted for his jilot. It 
 is supposed to be derived from the Italian, irmntre (to draw), owing to the passase-boat on the Brenta being drawn 
 over a dam by a crane, at a place about, five miles from Venice. — Collier. 
 
 3 I could not do ^citlial — I could not help it. ■• Fojid — foolish. 
 
 * Envy'H.^Enrtj is frequently used b_v Shakespeare in the sense oC malice, hatred. 
 
 * Jiemorse. — Bemorse, in our author's time, generally siirnified pit;/, tendernens. — Maloxk
 
 THE ,AIEECIIAXT OF VENICE. 
 
 Than is thy stran.'je apparent cruelly ; 
 
 And Avhere' thou now exact'st the penalty, 
 
 "Which is a pound of this poor merchant's ilesh, 
 
 Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture, 
 
 But, touch'd with liuman frentleness and love, 
 
 Forgive a moiety of the principal; 
 
 Glancing an eye of pity on his losses. 
 
 That Jiave of late so huddled on liis back. 
 
 Enow to press a royal merchant" down, 
 
 And pluck commiseration of his state 
 
 From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 
 
 From stuljborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd 
 
 To offices of tender courtesy. 
 
 "We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 
 
 Shy. I have possess'd your Grace of what I 
 purpose; 
 And by our holy Sabbatli have I sworn 
 To liave the duo and forfeit of my bond. 
 If you deny it, let the danger light 
 Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
 You'll ask me, why T rather choose to have 
 A weight of carrion flesli, than to receive 
 Three thousand ducats ? I'll not answer that : 
 But, say, it is my humour:^ is ic answer'd? 
 "What if my house be troubled wi'h a rat, 
 And I be pleas'd to give ten tliousand ducats 
 To have it baned?* "What, are you answered yet? 
 Some men there arc love not a gaping pig;° 
 Soaic, that are mad if tliey behold a cat. 
 Now, for A'our answer : 
 As there is no firm reason to be render'd, 
 W'hv he cannot abide a gaping pig, 
 "Why he, a harmless necessary cat. 
 So can I give no reason, nor I will not. 
 More than a lodg'd hate, and a certain loathing, 
 I bear Antonio, tliat I follow thus 
 A losing suit against him. Are you an.swer'd? 
 
 Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man. 
 To excus3 tlie current of thy cruelty. 
 
 Shy. I am not bound to please thee witli my 
 answer. 
 
 Bass. Bo all mea kill the tilings thev do not 
 love ? 
 
 Shy. Hates anv man the thing lie would not 
 kill ? 
 
 Ba^s. ]*]very offence is not a hate at first. 
 
 Shy. W^hat ! would'st thou have a serpent 
 sting thee twice ? 
 
 Ant. I pray you, think you question with the 
 Jew. 
 You may as well go stand aipon tlie bcacli, 
 
 And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 
 You may as well use question with the wolf, 
 Wh)- he hath made tl'c ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
 You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
 To wag their higlt tops, and to make no noise, 
 W'hen they are fretten'' with the gusts of heaven ; 
 You may as Avell do anything most liard, 
 Asseek to soften that (than wliicli. wliat harder?) 
 Ilis Jewish lieart. — Tlierefore, I do beseech you, 
 Make no more offers, use no I'urther means. 
 But with all brief and plain conveniency, 
 Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 
 
 B:MSS. For thy three tliousand ducats here is 
 six. 
 
 Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat. 
 I would not draw them: I would have my bond. 
 
 Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, ren- 
 d'ring none ? 
 
 Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no 
 wrong ? 
 You have among you many a purchas'd slave. 
 Which, like j'our asses, aud your dogs, and mules, 
 You use in abject and in slavish parts. 
 Because you bought them : — shall I say to you, 
 Let them be free ; — marry them to yoiu" heirs ; — 
 Why sweat they vmder burthens ? — let their beds 
 Be made as soft as j'ours ; and let their palates 
 Be seasonVl with such viands ? You will an- 
 swer. 
 The slaves are ours. — So do I answer you : 
 The pound of flesh, which I demand of him. 
 Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it. 
 If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
 There is no force in the decrees of Yenice. 
 I stand for judgment; answer: shall I have it? 
 
 Diike. L'pon my power I may dismiss this Court, 
 Unless Bellario, a learned Doctor, 
 Whom I have sent for to determine this. 
 Come here to-day. 
 
 Solar. My lord, here stays without 
 
 A messenger with letters from the Doctor, 
 Xew come from Padua. 
 
 Duk;. Bring us the letters: call the messen- 
 ger. [Exit a-i Attendant. 
 
 Biss. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, 
 courage yet ! 
 The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and 
 
 all. 
 Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 
 
 Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock; 
 
 1 W/iere — wberc.is. 
 
 ^ A roi/al merehiint. — When the Frpncli mu\ Venetians, in tlie besinnins of the tliirtcentli century, had won 
 Constantinojile. the French, under the Emperor Henry, endeavored to extenil their conquests into tlie i)rovinces 
 of the Grecian empire on the terra jfinna ; while the Venetians, who were masters of the sea, gave liberty to any 
 subjects of the republic who would fit out vessels, to make themselves masters of the isles of the Archipelasro and 
 otlier maritime places: and to enjoy their conquests in sovereignty: only doing homage to the republic for their 
 several principalities. — WAnuvRTOX. 
 
 ^ It i.i my humour. — The Jew being asked a question which the law does not require him to answer, stands 
 upon his right, and refuses; but afterwards gratifies his own malignity by such answei-s as he knows will nirgra- 
 vate the pain of the inquirer. I will not answer, says he, as to a legal or serious question, but since you want an 
 answer, will this serve you ? — ^.Joii.vsox. 
 
 * Bailed. — White says, in the early copies this word was '-contracted tlius, 'baiiiM;' but a contraction of the 
 modern orthogr.aphy would confound the verb with 'ban."'' 
 
 5 Gapinrj jng.—'By a fjapiny pig. Shakespeare, I believe, meant a pig preiiared for the table. So in Fletcher's 
 Elder Brother: •■ And tliey stand (lapiitfi like a roasted pig."' — Maloxk. 
 
 « Fretten.—ThH is the old form of fretted.
 
 30 
 
 THE JilEROHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Meetest for denth: the weakest kind of fruit 
 Drops earliest to the ground: and so let mo. 
 You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, 
 Than to live still, and write mine ci)itaph. 
 
 Re-enter Attendant, ivifJi Xerissa. dressed like a 
 LavJijer's Ckrk. 
 
 Duke. Came j-ou from Padua, from Bellario? 
 Ntr. From both, my lord. Bellario greets 
 your Grace. [Presents a Ittter. 
 
 Ba-is. Why dost thou whet thj- knife so ear- 
 nestly ? 
 Shy. To cut ihe forfeiture from that bankrupt 
 
 there. 
 Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh 
 Jew. 
 Thou mak'st thy knife keen;' but no metal cm, 
 No, not the hangman's ax, bear half the keen- 
 ness 
 Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce 
 tiiee ? 
 Shy. No, noue that thou hast wit enough to 
 
 make. 
 Gra. 0. be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ; 
 And for thy life let justice be accus'd ! 
 Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith. 
 To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
 That souls of animals infuse themselves 
 Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit 
 Governed a wolf, who, hang'd for human 
 
 slaughter. 
 Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet. 
 And whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, 
 Infus'd itself in tlieo ; for thy desires 
 Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd. and ravenous. 
 Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my 
 bond, 
 Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud. 
 Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
 To endless ruin. — I stand here for law. 
 
 Duke. This letter from Bellario doth com- 
 mend 
 A young and learned Doctor to our Court. — 
 Where is he? 
 
 Ner. Ho attendeth here hard by, 
 
 To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 
 
 Duke. With all my heart: — some three or 
 
 four of you 
 
 Go give him courteous conduct to this place. — 
 
 \_F..xeunt Gratiaxo, Salakixo, and Salaxio. 
 
 Mean time, the Court shall liear Bellario's letter. 
 
 [Clerk reads.] " Your Grace shill tmdersland, 
 that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; 
 hut in the instant that your messenger came, in 
 hving visitation ivas icith me a young doctor of 
 Home; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him 
 with the cause in controversu between the Jew and 
 
 Antonio, the merchant: vx turned o'er many hooks 
 together : he is furnished vnth my opinhn; ivhich, 
 b:tter'd ivdh his cion learning, the greatness where- 
 of I cannot enough commend, comef with him, at 
 my importunity, to fid up yo'ir Grace\s request in 
 my stead. J beseech you, let hi') lack of years he no 
 impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, 
 for I never knew so young a body with so old a 
 head. I leare him ti your gracious acceptance, 
 ivlwse trial shall better publish his commendation.^^ 
 
 Duke. You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he 
 writes : 
 And here, I take it, is the Doctor come. — 
 
 /?e-enii?r Gratiaxo, Salarixo, arecZ Salaxio, with 
 Portia, dressed like a Doctor of Laws. 
 
 Give me your hand. Came you from old Bel- 
 lario? 
 
 For I did, my lord. 
 
 Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 
 Are j^ou acquainted with the difference 
 That holds this present question in the Court? 
 
 For. I am informed throughly^ of the cause. — 
 Which is the merchant here, and which the 
 Jew? 
 
 Duke. Antonio and old Shvlock, both stand 
 forth. 
 
 For. Is your name Shy lock ? 
 
 Shy. Shylock is my name. 
 
 For. Of a strange nature is the suit you fol- 
 low; 
 Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
 Cannot impugn^ you, as you do proceed. — 
 You stand within his danger,* do you not? 
 
 [7b AxTOXio. 
 
 Ant. Ay, so he says. 
 
 For. Do you confess the bond? 
 
 Ant. I do. 
 
 For. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me 
 that. 
 
 For. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon tlie place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than liis crown : 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. 
 The attribute to awe and m.njesty. 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings , 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice. Tiierefore, Jew, 
 Tiiough justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
 That in the course of justice none of us 
 
 ' Xot on thy nolo, hut on, t'ly soul, Iiarsh Jeic, 
 Thou mah-'st thy knife keen. 
 The conceit is that Shylock"s soul w.is so h.ird th.it it lial iriven :i:i edse to his knif>'. — ■\V.\r.imr.TON. 
 
 - Tilroughiy.—'yhvongh and thorou^li arc diffcTcnt forms of tlic same word. — White. 
 
 ' Impugn — oppose. 
 
 * Within his lUinger. — Within his danger was, in Shakespeare's time, and long before, equivalent to indcbtod 
 to him : the phrase has no necessary reference to the |)eril of Antonio's position, but may mean merely that he 
 owes Shylock monej-, unless we suppose Shakespeare to liavc had a double meaning. — Collier.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 39 
 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy, 
 And that same prayer dotli teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke tlius much, 
 To mitigate the justice of thy i)lea, 
 "Which if tliou follow, this strict Court of Venice 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst tlie merchant 
 
 tliere. 
 Shy. My deeds upon my head. I crave the 
 
 law ; 
 The penalty and forfeit of ray bond. 
 
 For. Is he not able to discharjre the money? 
 Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the 
 
 Court; 
 Tea, twice tlie sum: if that will not suffice, 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
 On forfeit of my hands, my head, mj' heart. 
 If this will not sviffice, it must appear 
 That malice bears down truth:' and, I beseech 
 
 "Wrest once the law to your authority: 
 To do a great right, do a little wrong. 
 And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 
 For. It must not be. There is no power in 
 Venice 
 Can alter a decree established : 
 'Twill be recorded for a precedent; 
 And many an error, by the same example, 
 "Will rush into the State. It cannot be. 
 
 Shy. A Daniel come to judgment 1 yea, a 
 Daniel! — 
 wise young judge, how do I honour thee! 
 Fur. I pray you let me look upon the bond. 
 Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend Doctor; here 
 
 it is. 
 For. Shylock, there's thrice thy money ofler'd 
 thee. 
 
 Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in 
 Heaven: 
 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 
 For. V'hy, this bond is forfeit, 
 
 And lawfully by tliis the Jew may claim 
 A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
 Nearest the merchant's heart. — Be merciful; 
 Take thrice thy money: bid me tear the bond. 
 
 Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. — 
 It doth appear, you are a worthy judge: 
 You know the law; your exposition 
 Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. 
 Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear, 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 
 
 Ant. Most he.irtily I do beseech the Court 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 For. "Why then, thus it is : — 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; — 
 
 Shy. noble judge! excellent young man! 
 
 For. — For the intent and purpose of the law. 
 Hath fuU relation to the penalty 
 "Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 
 Shy. 'Tis very true. wise and upright 
 judge! 
 How much mure elder art ll-ou than thy looks! 
 
 For. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
 
 Shy. Ay, liis breast; 
 
 So says the bond: — doth it not, noble judge ? — 
 Nearest his heart: those are the very words. 
 
 For. It is so. Are there balance here to 
 weigh 
 The flesli. 
 
 Shy. I have them ready. 
 
 ' Truth — honesty.
 
 40 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 For. Have by some surgeon, Shjlock, on 
 your cliargc, 
 To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. 
 
 Slcy. It is not nominated in the bond. 
 
 For. It is not so cxpress'd ; but what of that ? 
 'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
 
 ^liy. I cannot find it; 'tis not in tlio bond. 
 
 For. Come, merchant, have you anything to 
 say ? 
 
 Ant. But little: I am arm'd, and well pre- 
 par'd. — 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio: faro you well. 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
 For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
 Than is her custom : it is still her use 
 To let the wretched man out-live his wealth, 
 To view with hollow C3'e, and wrinkled brow. 
 An age of poverty , from which lingering penance 
 Of such a misery dotli she cut me off. 
 Conmicud me to your honourable wife : 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end; 
 Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ; 
 And, wl:en the tale is told, bid her be judge, 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your friend. 
 And he repents not that he pays your debt; 
 For, if the Jew do cut but deep enougli, 
 I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 
 Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife 
 Which )s as dearto me as life itself; 
 But life itself, my wife, and all the world. 
 Are not with me esteem'd above tliy life : 
 I would lose all. ay sacrifice them all 
 IIo;'e to this devil, to deliver you. 
 
 Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love : 
 I wovild she were in Heaven, so she could 
 Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 
 
 Shy. [.l.sirfe.] These be the Christian husbands! 
 I have a daughter: 
 "Would any of the stock of Barrabas' 
 Had been her husband rather than a Christian! 
 [7b Portia.] We trifle time; I pray thee pursue 
 sentence. 
 
 For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh 
 is thine • 
 The Court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
 
 Sliy. Most rightlul judge ! 
 
 For. And you must cut this flesh from oft" his 
 breast : 
 The law allows it, and the Court awards it. 
 
 Shy. Most learned judge 1 — A sentence 1 come, 
 prepare 1 
 
 F<yr. Tarry a little: there is something else. — 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
 The words expressly are, a poimd of flesh: 
 Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of 
 
 liesh ; 
 But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 Are by the laws of Venice confiscate 
 Unto the State of Venice. 
 
 Gra. upright judge! — Mark, Jew: — 
 learned judge ! 
 
 Shy. Is that tho'law ? 
 
 For. Thyself shall see tlio Act;. 
 
 For, as thou urgest justice, be assiu'M, 
 
 Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest, 
 
 Gra. U learned judge! — Mark, Jew: — a 
 learned judge ! 
 
 Shy. I take this offer then : pay the bond thrice, 
 And let the Christian go, 
 
 Ba.ss. Here is the monev. 
 
 For. Soft! 
 The Jew shall have all justice; — soft! — no 
 
 haste: — 
 He shall have nothing b;it t'le ])cnalty." 
 
 Gra. Jew! an upright judge, a learned 
 judge 1 
 
 For Therefore, prepare tliee to cut off the 
 flesh. 
 Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more. 
 But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'sl more. 
 Or les.s, than a just pound, — be it so much 
 As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
 (Jr the division of the twentieth part 
 Of one poor scruple. — nay, if the scale do turn 
 But in the estimation of a hair, 
 Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 
 
 Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jev.' I 
 Now, infidel, I have thee on the liip. 
 
 For. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy for- 
 feiture. 
 
 Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 
 
 Bass. I have it ready for thee : here it is. 
 
 For. He hath refus'd it in the open Court: 
 He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 
 
 Gra. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel! — 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching mc that word. 
 
 Shy. Shall I not have barely my prineipr.l? 
 j For. Thou shalt have nothing but the for- 
 feiture. 
 To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 
 
 Shy. Why then the Devil give him good of it. 
 I'll stay no longer question. 
 I For. Tarry, Jew 
 
 ' The law hath yet another hold on yon. 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
 ! If it be prov'd again.st an alien. 
 That by direct, or indirect attempts 
 He seek the life of any citizen. 
 The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive. 
 Shall seize one half his goods : the other half 
 Comes to the privy coft'er of the State ; 
 And the oflender's life lies in the mercy 
 Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
 In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st 
 For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
 That, indirectly, and directly too, 
 Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
 Of the defendant, and thou hast incurr'd 
 The danger formerly by me rehears'd. 
 Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. 
 
 Gra. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang 
 ■thyself; 
 .\nd yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the State, 
 Thou ha.st not left the value of a cord ; 
 Therefore, tliou must be hang'd at the State's 
 cliarge. 
 
 Duka. That thou shalt see the difference of 
 _. our spirit. 
 
 ' B<irr<ib(i.i. — ' J5«rral)as,' .and not ' Carra6."js," seems to have been the iironunciation as well as the orthograp'.iy 
 of this name anions the Elizabethan dramatists. — WiiiTi;.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 41 
 
 I pardon thee thy Hfe before thou tisk it. 
 For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's: 
 Tlio other half comes to the general State, 
 AV'hich humbleness may drive into a fine. 
 
 For. Ay, for the State: not for Antonio.' 
 
 Shy. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not 
 that : 
 You take my house when you do take the prop 
 That doth sustain ray house; youtake my life 
 When you do take the moans whereby I live. 
 
 For. What mercy can you render him, An- 
 tonio ? 
 
 Gra. A halter gratis ; notiiing else ; for God's 
 sake ! 
 
 Ant. So please my lord the Duke, and all the 
 Court, ' ■ ■ 
 To quit the fine''* for one half of his goods, 
 I am content, so he will let me have 
 The other half in use, to render it. 
 Upon his death, nnto the gentleman 
 That lately stole liis daughter : 
 Two things provided more, — that, for this favour. 
 He presently become a Christian; 
 The otlier, that ho do record a gift. 
 Here in the Court, of all he dies possess'd, 
 Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter. 
 
 Buke. He sliall do this, or else I do recant 
 The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
 
 For. Art thoii contented, Jew? what dost 
 thou say? 
 
 Shi/. I am content. 
 
 For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 
 
 Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from 
 hence. 
 I am not well. Send the deed after me. 
 And I will sign it. 
 
 Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
 
 Gra. In christ'nlng thou shalt have two god- 
 fathers ; 
 
 Had I been .judge thou should'st have had ten 
 
 more.' 
 To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. 
 
 [Exit SlIYLOCK. 
 
 Duke. Sir, I entreat you with me home to 
 
 dinner. 
 For. I humbly do desire your Grace of par- 
 don: 
 I must away this night toward Padua, 
 And it is meet I presently set forth. 
 
 Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you 
 not. 
 Antonio, gratify this gentleman, 
 Por, in my mind, you are mucli bound to him. 
 [Exeunt DuKE, Magnificoes, and Train. 
 Portia and -Nerissa retire vp the 
 sta-je and throw off their disguises. 
 Bass [Goinj vp the stage with Antonio and 
 
 friendi.] Most worthy gentleman 
 
 For. You are all amaz'd : 
 
 Here is a letter, read it at your leisure; 
 It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
 There you shall find, that Portia was the Doctor; 
 Nerissa there, her cleric. Antonio ; 
 I have better news in store for you, 
 Than you expect: unseal this letter soon ; 
 There you shall fiud, three of your argosies 
 Are richly come to harbour suddenly. 
 Y''ou shall not know by what s:range accident 
 I chanced on this letter. 
 
 .Int. I am dumb. 
 
 Bass. Were you the Doctor, and I knew vou 
 
 not? 
 Gra. Were you the clerk — 
 For. Y'ou are not satisfied 
 
 Of these events at full. Let us go in ; 
 And charge us there upon inter'gatories, 
 And we will answer all things faithfully. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Ai/,for the State ; not for Antonio. — That is, the State's moiety iniij- lie cDinmutcd to a line, but not An- 
 tonio's. — M.\I.()>E. * 
 
 ^ To quit the. fine. &c. — Antonio does not mean tliat lie is content to release Shylock from tlie decree of the 
 Stiite with regard to one-half of his goods,— whieh would be an inii>ertinence not alcin to Antonio's character, — but 
 to leave (quit) the tine to tlie mercy of the State, while lie on his si<le shows mercy by not claitning the fee simple 
 of tile other half, but only its use,— that is, the product derivable from it,— till the Jew's death, rendering it then to 
 his son-in-law and heir, Lorenzo. 
 
 3 Ten more. — Jurymen were jestingly called godfather.s. So In " The Devil is an As.s," by IJeii Jonson: " I 
 will leave you to your godfathers iu law. Let twelve men work."
 
 ANALYSIS OF THE PLAY. BY GERVINUS. 
 
 In the centre of the actors in the play, in a rather passive position, stands 
 Antonio, the princely merchant, of enviable inimense possessions, a Timon, a Shy- 
 lock, in liches, but with a noble nature elevated far above ti)e effects, which wealth 
 produced in these men. Placed between the generous and the nnser, between the 
 spendthrift and the usurer, between Bassanio and ShyJock, between friend and foe, 
 lie is not even remotely tempted by the vices, into which these have fallen ; there is 
 not the slightest trace to be discovered in him of that care for his wealth, which 
 Salanio and Salarino impute to him, who in its possession would be its slaves. But 
 his great riches have inflicted another evil upon him, the malady of the rich, who 
 have been agitated and tried by nothing, and have never experienced the pressure of 
 the world. lie has the spleen, he is melancholy; a sadness has seized him, the 
 sDurce of which no one knows; he has a presentiment of some danger, such as 
 Shakespeare always iniparts to all sensitive, susceptible natures. In this spleen, like 
 all hypochondriacs, he takes delight in cheerful society; he is surrounded by a num- 
 ber of parasites and flatterers, among whom is one more noble character, Bassanio, 
 with whom alone a deeper impulse of friendship connects him. He is affable, mild, 
 generous to all, without knowing their tricks, without sharing their mirth ; the 
 loquacions versatility, the humor of a Gratiano is nothing to him ; his pleasure in 
 their intercourse is passive, according to his universal apathy. * * * * But he is 
 not, therefore, to appear quite feelinglcss. For in one point he shows that he shared 
 gall, flesh, and blood with others. AVlien brought into contact with the usurer, the 
 Jew Shylock, we see him in an agitation, which partly flows from moral and business 
 principles, partly from intolerance, and from national religious aversion. This point 
 of honur in the merchant against the money-changer and usurer, urges liim to those 
 glaring outbui-sts of hatred, when he rates Shylock in the Rialto about his usances, 
 calls hiin a dog, foots liim, and spits upon his beard. For this he receives a lesson 
 for life in his lawsuit with the Jew, which with his apathetic negligence he allows to 
 run ahead of him. The danger of life seizes him, and the apparently insensible man 
 is suddenly drawn closer to us ; he is suffering, so that high and low intercede for
 
 AXALYSIS OF THE PLAY. 43 
 
 him; lie hinisclf petitions Sli\lock; bis situation weakens liiin ; the experience is 
 not lost for him ; it is a crisis, it is the creation of a new life for him ; finally, when 
 he is lord and master over Shylock, he rakes up no more his old hatred against hiin, 
 and in Bassanio's happiness and tried friendship there lies henceforth for tlie man 
 roused from his apatliy, the source of renovated and ennobled existence. 
 
 Unacquainted with this friend of Bassanio's, there lives at Belmont his beloved 
 Portia, the contrast to Antonio, upon whom Shakespeare has not hesitated to heap 
 all the active qualities, of which l\c has deprived Antonio ; for in the womanly being, 
 kept modestly in the background, these qualities will not appear so overwhelmingly 
 prominent, as we felt that, united in the man, they would have raised him too far 
 above the other characters of tlic piece. Nevertheless Portia is the most important 
 figure in our drama, and she forms even its true central point, as for her sake, with- 
 out her fault or knowledge, the knot is entangled, and through her and in her con- 
 scious effort it is also loosened. She is just as royally rich as Antonio, and as he is 
 encompassed with parasites, so is slie by suitors from all lands. She too, like 
 Antonio, and more than he, is wholly free from every disturbing influence of her pos- 
 sessions upon her inner being. She cawies out her father's will, in order to secure 
 herself from a husband, who might purchase her beauty by the weight. AVithout 
 this will, she was of herself of the same mind; wooed by princely suitors, she loves 
 Bassanio, whom she knew to be utterly poor. She too, like Antonio, is melancholy, 
 but not from spleen, not from apathy, not without cause, not from that ennui of 
 riches, but just from passion, from her love for Bassanio, from care for the doubtful 
 issue of that choice, which threatens to betray her love to chance. A completely 
 superior nature, she stands above Antonio and Bassanio, as Helena above Bertram, 
 more than Rosaline above Biron and Juliet above Romeo : it seems that Shakespeare 
 at that time created and endowed his female characters in the conviction, that the 
 woman was fashioned out of better material than the man. On account of the 
 purity of her nature, she is compared to the image of a saint, on account of the 
 strength of her will to Brutus's I'ortia; Jessica speaks of her as without her fellow 
 in the world, giving to her husband the joys of heaven upon earth. The most 
 beautifnl and the most contradictory qualities, manly determination and Avomanly 
 tenderness, are blended together in her. ***** gj^^ jg superior to all circum- 
 stances, that is her highest praise ; she would have accommodated herself to any 
 husband, for this reason her father might have felt himself justified in prescribing 
 the lottery; he could do so with the most implicit confidence; she knows the 
 contents of the caskets, but she betrays it not. Once she has sent from her eyes 
 speechless messages to Bassanio, and now she would gladly entertain him some 
 months before he chooses, that she may at least secure a short possession ; but no 
 liint from her facilitates his election. And yet she has to struggle with the warm 
 feeling, which longs to transgress the will; it is a temptation to her, but she resists 
 it with honor and resolution. Only, quick in judgment, skilled in the knowledge 
 of men, and firm in her treatment, she knows how to frighten away the utterly worth-
 
 44 ANALYSIS OF THE PLAY. 
 
 less lovers by her behavior; so superior is she in ;ill tliis, that her nibseqnent 
 appearance as judge is perfectly conceivable. Famous actresses, such as Mrs. Clivc 
 in Garrick's time, have used this judg'mcnt-scenc as a burlesque to laugh at, a part 
 in which the highest pathos is at work, and an exalted character pursues the most 
 pure and sacred object. 
 
 Between both, Portia and Antonio, stands Bassanio, the friend of the one, the 
 lover of the other, utterly poor between the two boundlessly rich, ruined in his cir- 
 cumstances, inconsiderate, extravagant at the expense of his friend. He seems quite 
 to belong to the parasitical class of Antonio's friends. In disposition he is more 
 inclined to the merry Gratiano than to Antonio's severe gravity ; he appears on the 
 stage with the question — "When shall we laugh?" and he joins with his frivolous 
 companion in all cheerful and careless foUv. This time he borrows once more three 
 thousand ducats, to make a strange Argonautic expedition to the Golden Fleece, 
 staking them on a blind adventure, the doubtful wooing of a rich heiress. Ilis 
 friend breaks his habit of never borrowing on credit, he enters into an agreement 
 with the Jew upon the bloody condition, and the adventurer accepts the loan with 
 the sacrifice. And before he sets forth, even on the same day and evening, he pur- 
 chases fine livery for his servants with this money, and gives a merry feast as a fare- 
 well, during which the daughter of the invited Jew is to be carried ofi'by one of the 
 free-thinking fellows. Is not the Avhole, as if he were only the seeming friend of 
 this rich man, that he might borrow his money, and only the seeming lover of this 
 rich lady, that he might pay his debts with her money ? 
 
 But this quiet Antonio seemed to know the man of had appearance to be of 
 better nature. He knew him indeed as somewhat too extravagant but not incurably 
 so, as one who Avas ready and able even to restrict himself. He knew him as one 
 who stood " within the eye of honor," and he lent to him, without a doubt of his 
 integrity. His confidence was unlimited, and he blames him rather that he should 
 "make question of his uttermost," than if ho had made waste of all he has. In his 
 melancholy, it is this man alone who chains him to the world ; their friendship 
 needs no brilliant words, it is unfeignedly genuine. His eyes, full of tears at part- 
 ing, tell Bassanio, what he is worth to Antonio ; it is just the acceptance of the 
 loan which satisfies Antonio's confidence. * * * * 
 
 Bassanio's choice is crowned by success; or more justly, his wise consideration 
 of the father's object and of the mysterious problem, meets Avith its deserved reward. 
 But his beautiful doctrine of show is to be tested innnediately, whether it be really 
 deed and truth. His adventurous expedition has succeeded through his friend's 
 assistance and loan. But at the same moment, in which he is at the climax of his 
 happiness, his friend is at the climax of misfortune and in the utmost danger ot his 
 life, and this from the very assistance and loan, which have helped Bassanio to his 
 success. In the very prime of his Avcdding happiness the horror of the intelligence 
 concerning Antonio occurs. Now the genuineness of the friend shows itself. The 
 intelligence disturbs his whole nature. He goes on his wedding-day — Portia herself
 
 ANALYSIS OF THE PLAY. 45 
 
 permits not, that tbey sliould be married first, — to save liis friend, to pay thrice the 
 money borrowed, in the liopc of being able to turn aside the law in this case of 
 necessity. But Portia proves even here lier superior nature. She sees more keenly, 
 what an inevitable snare tlie inhuman Jew has dug for Antonio: she adopts the 
 surest idea, of saving him by i-ight and law itself; she had at the same time a plan 
 for testing the man of her love. ***** gjjg saves her friend from 
 despair, and his friend from death, at the same moment that amid their torments 
 she is observing their value. Antonio has in this catastrophe to atone for all that 
 he had sinned against Shylock through sternness, Bassanio for all that of which he 
 was guilty through frivolity, extravagance, and participation in the offences against 
 the Jew : the best part of both is exhibited through their sufferings in their love 
 for each other, and Antonio's words, the seal of this friendship, must have pene- 
 trated deeply into Portia's heart. But with equally great agitation she hears the 
 words of Bassanio, that he would sacrifice his wife, his latest happiness, to avert the 
 misfortune which he had caused. This disregard of her must enchant her: this was 
 standing the fiery test. Whilst she turns the words into a jest, she lias the deepest 
 emotion to overcome : with those words, the sin is forgiven of which Bassanio was 
 guilty. By his readiness for this sacrifice he first deserves the friend, whom he had 
 brought near to death through the wooing of this wife and the means of pressing 
 his suit, which Antonio had given him ; and by this also he first deserves his wife, 
 who could not be called happily won by a fortunate chance, which was at once the 
 evil destiny of his friend. ****** 
 
 Shylock is the contrast, which we hardly need explain, although indeed in this 
 age of degeneration of art and morals, lowness and madness could go so far as to 
 make a martyr on the stage of this outcast of humanity. The poet has certainly 
 given to this character, in order that he may not sink quite below our interest, a 
 perception of his paria-condition, and has imputed his outburst of hatred against 
 Christians and aristocrats, partly to genuine grounds of annoyance. Moreover, he 
 has not delineated the usurer from the hatred of the Christians of that time against all 
 that was Jewish, else he would not have imparted to Jessica her lovely character. 
 But of the emancipation of the Jew he knew indeed nothing, and least of all the 
 emancipation of this Jew, whom Burbadge in Shakespeare's time acted in a char- 
 acter frightful also in exterior, with long nose and red hair, and whose inward 
 deformity, whose hardened nature, is far less determined by religious bigotiy, than 
 by the most terrible of all fanaticism, that of avarice and usury. He hates indeed 
 the Christians as Christians, and therefore Antonio who has mistreated him ; but he 
 hates him far more, because by disinterestedness, by what he calls " low simplicity," 
 he destroys his business, because he lends out money gratis, brings down the rate 
 of usance, and has lost him half a million. Riches have made him the greatest con- 
 trast to that which they have rendered Antonio, who throughout appears indifferent, 
 incautious, careless, and generous. Shylock on the other hand is meanly careful, 
 cautiously circumspect, systematically quiet, ever inwardly shufflingly occupied, like
 
 46 ANALYSTS OF THE PLAY. 
 
 the genuine son of his race, disdaining not the most contemptible means, nor tlie 
 most contemptible object, speculating in the gaining of a penny, looking so far into 
 the future and into small results, that he sends the greedy Launcelot into Bassanio's 
 service, and against his principle he eats at night at Bassanio's house, only for the 
 sake of feeding upon the prodigal Christian. This trait is given to him by the poet 
 in a truly masterly manner, in order subsequently to explain the barbarous condition, 
 on which he lends Antonio that fatal sum. Shakespeare after his habit has done the 
 utmost to give probability to this most improbable degree of cruelty, which, accord- 
 ing to Bacon's words, appears in itself to every good mind, a fabulous tragic fiction. 
 Antonio has mistreated him ; at the moment of the loan he was like to mistreat liim 
 agaiu ; he challenges him to lend it as to an enemy ; he almost suggests to him the 
 idea, which the Jew places, as if jestingly, as a condition of the loan ; and he, the 
 man railed at for usury, will now generously grant it without interest, to the man 
 who never borrowed upon advantage. The same crafty speculation and prospect 
 which, at all events, is attended with one advantage, underlies this idea: in one case 
 the show of disinterestedness, in the other the opportunity for a fearful revenge. 
 Had the Jew really only partially trifled with the idea of such a revenge, the poet 
 does every thing to make a jest fearfully earnest. Money had effaced every thing 
 human from the heart of this man, he knows nothing of religion and moral law, but 
 when he quotes the Bible in justification of his usury ; he knows of no mercy, but to 
 which he can be compelled; nothing of justice and mercy dwells in liim, nothing of 
 the affection of kindred. His daughter is carried away from him ; he is furious, not 
 because he is robbed of her, but l)ecause she has robbed him in her flight ; he would 
 see his daughter dead at his feet, provided that the jewels and gems were in her 
 ears ; he would see her hearsed before him, provided the ducats were in her coffin. 
 He regrets the money employed in her pursuit ; when he hears of her extravagance, 
 the irretrievable loss of his ducats occasions fresh rage. In this condition he pants 
 for revenge against Antonio, even before there is any prospect of it, against the man, 
 who by long mortifications had stirred up rage and hatred in the bosom of the Jew, 
 and with whose removal his usury would be without an adversary. Obduracy and 
 callousness continue to progress in him, until at the pitch of liis wickedness he 
 falls into the pit he had dug, and then, according to the notions of the age, learns 
 from the actions of Antonio and of the Duke, how mercy in a Christian spirit 
 produces other actions, than the unmerciful god of the world, who imposed upon 
 him its laws alone. This awful picture of the effects of a thirst for possession, 
 however strongly it is exhibited, will appear as no caricature to him, who has 
 ever stumbled upon similar evidences in the actual world, in the histories of 
 £;amblers and misers.
 
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