Mor.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun,
To whom I am a neighbor and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love,
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love, I swear
The best-regarded virgins of our clime
Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
Por.
In terms of choice I am not soly led
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;
Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.
But if my father had not scanted me,
And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look’d on yet
For my affection.
Mor.
Even for that I thank you;
Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets
To try my fortune. By this scimitar
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when ’a roars for prey,
To win [thee], lady. But alas the while!
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his [page],
And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.
Por.
You must take your chance,
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage; therefore be advis’d.
Mor.
Nor will not. Come bring me unto my chance.
Por.
First, forward to the temple; after dinner
Your hazard shall be made.
Mor.
Good fortune then!
To make me blest or cursed’st among men.
[Cornets.] Exeunt.
¶
[Scene II]
Enter the Clown [Launcelot Gobbo] alone.
Laun. Certainly my conscience 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], good Launcelot,” or “good [Gobbo],” or “good Launcelot [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. “Fia!” 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, bouge not.” “Bouge,” says the fiend. “Bouge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you 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 run away from the Jew, I should be rul’d 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 commandement, I will run.
Enter Old Gobbo with a basket.
Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?
Laun. [Aside.] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who being more than sand-blind, high gravel-blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him.
Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?
Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.
Gob. Be God’s sonties, ’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? [Aside.] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters.—Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son. His father,
