Ant.
Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you,
And you embrace th’ occasion to depart.
Sal.
Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass.
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?
Sal.
We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.
Exeunt Salerio and Solanio.
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, Gratiano,
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 his grandsire cut in alablaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundies
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio—
I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks—
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a willful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,
As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!”
O my Antonio, I do know of these
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing; when I am very sure
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears
Which hearing them would call their brothers fools.
I’ll tell thee more of this another time;
But fish not with this melancholy bait
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well 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 moe,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Ant.
Fare you well! I’ll grow a talker for this gear.
Gra.
Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable
In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
Exeunt [Gratiano and Lorenzo].
Ant. It is that—any thing 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 are not worth the search.
Ant.
Well, tell me now what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis’d to tell me of?
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 continuance.
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d
From such a noble rate, but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts
Wherein my time something too prodigal
Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio,
I owe the most in money and in love,
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburthen all my plots and purposes
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
