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Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his| right sense, so forcible is thy wit: But, I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And 1, pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

Beat. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Bene. Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat. In spite of your heart, I think; alas! poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Beat. It appears not in this confession; there's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours: if a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument, than the bell rings, and the widow weeps.

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SCENE IV.-A Room in LEONATO's House.
Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEA-
TRICE, URSULA, FRIAR, and HERO.

Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent?
Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who
accus'd her,

Reat. And how long is that, think you? Bene. Question ?-Why, an hour in clamour. and a quarter in rheum: Therefore it is most Upon the error that you heard debated: expedient for the wise, (if Don Worm his cou-But Margaret was in some fault for this; science, find no impediment to the contrary, Although against her will, as it appears to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to In the true course of all the question. myself: So much for praising myself, (who, I myself will bear witness, is praise-worthy,) and now tell me, How doth your cousin ?

Beat. Very ill.

Bene. And how do you?

Beat. Very ill too.

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend: then will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

Enter URSULA,

Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle; yonder's old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don Johu is the author of all, who is fled and gone will you come presently?

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior? Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and, moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The inside of a Church. Enter Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and ATTENDANTS, with Music and Tapers. Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato ? Atten. It is, my lord.

Claud. [Reads from a scroll.]

Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies:
Death, the guerdon of her wrongs
Gives her fame which never dies:
So the life, that died with shame,
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,

[Affixing it.

Praising her when I am dumb.Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn bymu,

SONG.

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Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

Bene. And so am I, being else by faith an forc'd

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen
all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves;
And, when I send for you, come hither mask'd:
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour
To visit me :-You know your office, brother;
You must be father to your brother's daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.

[Exeunt Ladies.

Ant. Which I will do with coufirm'd countenance.

Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

Friar. To do what, signior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one of
them.-

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
Leon. That eye my daughter lent her; 'Tis

most true.

Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Leon. The sight whereof, I think you had from me,

From Claudio and the prince; But what's your
will?

Bene. Your answer, Sir, is enigmatical:
But for my will, my will is, your good will
May stand with our's, this day to be conjoin'd
In the estate of honourable marriage :-
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
Friar. And my help.

Here comes the prince, and Claudio.

Enter Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with
Attendants.

D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assem-
bly.

Leon. Good-morrow, prince; good-morrow,
Claudio;

We here attend you; are you yet determin'd
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?

Claud. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

Leon, Call her forth, brother, here's the friar ready. (Exit ANTONIO.

D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick: Why, what's the matter,

That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Claud. I think, he thinks upon the savage bull:

[gold,

Tush, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee:
As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.
Bene. Bull Jove, Sir, had an amiable low;
And some such strange bull leap'd your father's
And got a calf in that same noble feat, [cow,
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked.
Claud. For this I owe you: here comes other
reckonings.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then she's mine: Sweet, let me see your face.

Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her Before this Friar and swear to marry her. [hand Claud. Give me your hand before this holy I am your husband, if you like of me. [friar; Hero. And when I liv'd, I was your other wife : [Unmasking. And when you loved, you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero? Hero. Nothing certainer : Oue Hero died defil'd; but I do live, And, surely as I live, I am a maid.

D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

Friar. All this amazement can I qualify;
When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:
Mean time, let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.

Bene. Soft and fair, friar.-Which is Beatrice?
Beat. I answer to that name; [Unmasking.]
What is your will?

Bene. Do not you love me?

Beat. No, no more than reason.
Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince,
and Claudio,

Have been deceived; for they swore you did.
Beat. Do not you love me ?

Bene. No, no more than reason.

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula.

Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did. Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene. 'Tis no such matter :-Then, you do no1

love me?

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

Claud. And I'll be sworn upon't, thai be lores For here's a paper, written in his band, ber; A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion'd to Beatrice.

Hero. And here's another,

Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocke Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts!-Come, I will have thee; bat by the light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny yon; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and, party, to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth.— Kissing her. D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the mar ried man?

Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit crackers caunot flout me out of my hander: Dost thou think, I care for a satire, or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brais, he shall wear nothing handsome about him; hi brief, since I do propose to marry, I will thymk nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a gidey thing, and this is my conclusion.-For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee: but n that thou art like to be my kinsman, live asbruised, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hoped, thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cadgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a dhabie dealer; which out of question, thou wilt be, i my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends;-let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may highteo our own hearts, and our wives' heels.

Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards.
Bene. First, o' my word! therefore, play,

music.

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

LITERARY AND HISTORICAL NOTICE.

SHAKSPEARE was supposed to have taken the two plots of this admirable play from an Italian novel, and from a collection of old stories, printed by Wynkin de Worde, under the title of Gesta Romanorum; but as a play comprehending the incidents of both had been exhibited long before he commenced writing for the stage, he probably chose the latter as a model for his own production. It matters not, however, from what source a dramatic author derives his plot, so that he plan it well, and make good use of it afterward; and Johnson says, that in this play "the union of two actions in one event is eminently happy" excelling even Dryden's skilful conjunction of the two plots in his Spanish Frier, yet the interest of the action can scarcely be said to continue beyond the disgrace of Shylock, in the fourth act; since expectation is so strongly fixed upoa "justice and the bond," that it ceases to exist after they are satisfied. In the defeat of cunning, sad in the triumph of humanity, the most powerful feelings of our nature are successively appealed to: thus anticipation is keenly alive, so long as Actonio's fate is dark and undecided. But with the development of that, the charm is at an end. The power of excitement expires with the object upon which the feelings were centered; and as the lesser passions are susceptible of little delight, when the greater have been subjected to aty unusual stimulant, the cominon-place trifles of the concluding act are rather endured with paticnec, than received with gratification. The character of Shylock is no less original, than it is finely finished : "the language, allusions, and ideas (says Henly) are so appropriate to a Jew, that Shylock might be exhibited for an exemplar of that peculiar people;" nor are the other personages unpleasingly drawn or inadequately supported. Of detached passages, Portia's description of the qualitics and excellence of mercy, may be selected as one of the noblest attributes with which Genius has ever exalted the excellence of any particular

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3

SALANIO,

OLD GOBBO, Father to Launcelot.
SALERIO, a Messenger from Venice.
LEONARDO, Servant to Bassanio.

BALTHAZAR, Servants to Portia.

STEPHANO,

SALARINO,Friends to Antonio and Bassanio. | PORTIA, a rich Heiress :

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NERISSA, her waiting-maid.
JESSICA, Daughter to Shylock.

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of
Justice, Jailer, Servants, and other
Attendants.

SCENE-partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the Seat of Portla, on the Continent.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-Venice.-A Street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say, it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn ;

And such a want wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean :
There, where your argosies with portly sail,

• Ships of large burthen, probably galleons.

Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were the pageants of the sea,

Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That curt'sy to them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan. Believe me, Sir, had 1 such venture
forth,

The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the

wind:

Peering in maps, for ports, and pters, and roads ;
And every object, that might make me lear
Misfortune to my ventures out of doubt
Would make me sad.

Salar. My wind cooling my broth,

Would blow me to an ague when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of fiats ;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks;
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the
thought

To think on this; and shall I lack the thought,
That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me
sad?

But, tell not me: I know, Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

[it,

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year :
Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad.
Salan. Why then you are in love.

Ant. Fie, fie!

Salan. Not 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,
(Janus,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their
eyes,

And laugh, like parrots, at a bagpiper;
And other of such vinegar aspect,
That they'll not show their teeth in way of
smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.
Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble
kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo: Fare you well;
We leave you now with better company.

And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
O my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those
foods.
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers,
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.-
Come, good Lorenzo :-Fare ye well, a while;
I'll end my exbortation after dinner. +

ears,

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 talker for this

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same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?

Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuaect:
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
From such a noble rate; but my chief care

Salar. I would have staid till I had made you is, to come fairly off from the great debts,

merry,

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it, your own business calls on you,
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass. 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.

[Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO. Lor. 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 fail you.

Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
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,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like bis grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaun.

dice

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;

Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gaged: To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money, and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburden all my plots and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know
it;

And, if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd,
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

Bass. In my school days, when I had lost our
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 adventing

both.

1 oft found both: 1 urg'd this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence

I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost: but if you picase
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant. You know me well; and herem 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,

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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 press'd unto it: therefore, speak,
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues; sometimes + from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages:
Her name is Portia ; nothing 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
Haug on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos'
strand,

And many Jasons come in quest of her.
O my Antonio, bad 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.

nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his good parts, that he can shoe him himself; I am much afraid, my lady his mother played false with a smith.

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

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

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 had habit of frowning than the count Palatine: he is every

Ant. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are man in no man: if a throstle sing, he falls

at sea;

Nor have I money, nor commodity

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth,
Try what my credit can in Venice do;
That shall be rack'd even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.-Belmont.-A Room in PORTIA'S

House.

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA. Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world.

Ner. 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 mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced. Ner. They would be better, if well followed. Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; 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 over a cold decree such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband :-O nie, the word choose! I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father-Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?

Ver. 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 pray thee overname them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them: and, according to my description, level at my affec

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straight a capering: 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 maduess, I shall never requite him.

Ner. What say you then to Faulconbridge, the young baron of England?

Por. You know, I say nothing to him; for he understands not me, nor I him he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian; and you will come into the court and swear, that I have a poor penny-worth in the English. 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 his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bounet in Germany, and his behaviour every where.

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

Por. 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 became his surety, and sealed under for auother.

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

Por. 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 without him.

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

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

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determination: which is, indeed, to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit; unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets.

Por. 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 will: I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on bis very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure.

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a sol

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