Judge. Tarry a little; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh;
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
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.

[judge!

Gratiano. O upright judge!-Mark, Jew: O learned Shyl. Is that the law?

Judge. Thyself shalt see the act:

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured,

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

Gra. O learned judge! — Mark, Jew; a learned judge!

Shyl. I take this offer, then;

And let the Christian go.

Bas. Here is the money.

Judge. Soft;

pay the bond thrice •

The Jew shall have all justice:- soft! — no haste;
He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gra. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
Judge. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more,
But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more,
Or less, than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
Or 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, Jew!

Judge. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
Shyl. Give me the principal and let me go.
Bas. I have it ready for thee; here it is.
Judge. He hath refused 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 me that word.
Shyl. Shall I not have barely my principal?
Judge. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril. Tarry, Jew:
The law hath yet another hold on you
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,-

If it be proved against 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 coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou standest:
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke!

DIALOGUE XI.

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

Lady.

Why wouldst thou leave me, oh, gentle child?
Thy home on the mountains is bleak and wild,
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall;
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,

Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture forever streams.

Boy.

Oh, green is the turf where my brothers play,

Through the long, bright hours of the summer day;
And they find the red cup-moss where they climb;
They chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!

Lady.

Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell!

Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;

Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps, which the wandering breezes tune,

And the silvery woodnote of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.

Boy.

My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,

A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;

I dreamt last night of that music low,—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!

Lady.

Thy mother hath gone from her cares to rest;
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door;

Come with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.
Boy.

Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play;
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well:

Or they launch their boats where the blue streams flow:
Lady, sweet lady! oh, let me go!

Lady.

Fair child thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow;
They have left the fern by the spring's green side
And the stream where the fairy barks were tried;
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.
Boy.

Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?.
But the bird and the blue fly rove o'er it still;
And the red deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee;
The waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,
Lady, sweet lady! oh, let me go!

DIALOGUE XII.

THE BETTER LAND.

Child.

1 hear thee speak of the better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?

Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle beughs?

Mother.

Not there, not there, my child!

Child.

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?

Mother.

Not there, not there, my child!

Child.

Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?

Mother.

Not there, not there, my child'

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair;
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom-
Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb;

-It is there, it is there, my child!

DIALOGUE XIII

SCENE FROM THE LITTLE MERCHANTS.'

(Piedro and Francisco.)

Piedro. This is your morning's work, I presume, and you'll make another journey to Naples to-day, on the same errand, I warrant, before your father thinks you have done enough.

Francisco. Not before my father thinks I have done enough, but before I think so myself.

P. I do enough to satisfy myself and my father, too, without slaving myself after your fashion. Look here; (showing money;) all this was had for asking; it is no bad thing, you'll allow, to know how to ask for money properly.

F. I should be ashamed to beg or borrow either.

P. Neither did I get what you see by begging or by borrowing either, but by using my wits-not as you did yesterday, when, like a novice, you showed the bruised side of your melon, and so spoiled your market by your wisdom.

F. Wisdom I think it, still.

P. And your father?

F. And my father.

P. Mine is of a different way of thinking: he always tells me, that the buyer has need of a hundred eyes, and if one can blind the whole hundred, so much the better. You must know, I got off the fish to-day, that my father could not sell yesterday, in the market. Got it off for fresh, just out of the river-got twice as much as the market-price for it; and from whom, think you? Why, from the very booby that would have bought the bruised melon for a good one, if you would have let him. You'll allow I am no fool, Francisco, and that I am in a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as I have begun.

He

F. Stay,-you forgot that the booby you took in today will not be so easily taken in to-morrow. will buy no more fish from you, because he will be afraid of your cheating him; but he will be ready enough to buy fruit of me, because he will know I shall not cheat him. So you will have lost a customer, and I gained one.

P. With all my heart. One customer does not make a market: if he buys no more, what care I? there are people enough to buy fish in Naples.

F. And do you mean to serve them all in the same manner?

P. If they will be only so good as to give me leave. "Venture a small fish to catch a large one!"