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And the vile fqueaking of the wry-neck'd fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the publick street,
To gaze on chriftian fools with varnish'd faces:
But stop my houfe's ears, I mean, my casements,
Let not the found of fhallow foppery enter
My fober house. By Jacob's ftaff, I swear,
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
But I will go; go you before me, firrah:
Say, will come.
Laun. Sir, I will go before.
Mistress, look out at a window for all this;
There will come a christian by,
Will be worth a Jewess' eye.
Shy. What fays that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
Jef. His words were, farewel, miftrefs; nothing else.
Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder:
Snail-flow in profit, and he fleeps 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 purfe. Well, Jeffica, go in,
Perhaps, I will return immediately;
Shut the doors after you; faft bind, faft find,
A proverb never ftale in thrifty mind.
Jef. Farewel; and if my fortune be not croft,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
Enter Gratiano, and Salanio, in masquerade.
Gra. This is the penthouse, under which Lorenzo defired us
to make a ftand.
Sal. His hour is aĺmost past.
Gra. And it is marvel he outdwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
Sal. O, ten times fafter Venus' pidgeons fly
To feal love's bonds new made, than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
Gra. That ever holds. Who rifeth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he fits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with th' unbated fire
That he did pace them first? all things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
How like a younker, or a prodigal,
The fcarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg'd and embraced by the ftrumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth fhe return
With overweather'd ribs, and ragged fails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the ftrumpet wind!
Sal. Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter..
Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait;
When you fhall please to play the thieves for wives,
I'll watch as long for you then; come, approach;
Here dwells my father Jew. Hoa, who's within ?
Jeffica above in boy's cloths.
Jef. Who are you? tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I'll fwear that I do know your tongue.
Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love.
Jef. Lorenzo, certain, and my love, indeed;
For who love I fo much? and now who knows,
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
Lor. Heav'n and thy thoughts are witness that thou art..
Jef. Here, catch this cafket, it is worth the pains..
I'm glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much afham'd of my exchange;
But love is blind, and lovers cannot fee
pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To fee me thus transformed to a boy.
Lor. Defcend, for you must be
must be my torchbearer.
Jef. What, muft I hold a candle to my shames?
They in themselves good-footh are too, too light.
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love,
And I should be obscur'd.
Lor. So are you, sweet,
Ev'n in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once
For the close night doth play the runaway,
And we are stay'd for at Baffanio's feast.
Jef. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With fome more ducats, and be with you straight.
Gra. Now, by my hood, a gentile, and no few.
Lor. Befhrew me, but I love her heartily,
For fhe is wife, if I can judge of her;
And fair the is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as fhe hath prov'd herself;
And therefore, like herself, wife, fair, and true,
Shall fhe be placed in my conftant soul.
What, art thou come on, gentlemen, away;
Our masking mates by this time for us stay. [Exit, with Jeffica. Enter Anthonio.
Anth. Who's there?
Gra. Signior Anthonio!
Anth. Fie, Gratiano, where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you:
I have fent twenty out to feek for you.
No mask to-night, the wind is come about,
Baffanio prefently will go aboard.
"Gra. I'm glad on't, I defire no more delight Than to be under fail, and gone to-night.
Enter Portia with Morochius, and both their trains.
O, draw afide the curtains, and discover The fev'ral cafkets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. [three cafkets are difcovered. Mor. The firft of gold, which this infcription bears: Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men defire. The fecond filver, which this promise carries : Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deferves. This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt: Who choofeth me, must give and hazard all he bath. How fhall I know if I do choose the right?
Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince;
choose that, then am I yours withal.
Mor. Some god direct my judgment! let me see,
I will furvey th' infcriptions back again;
What fays this leaden casket?
Who choofeth me, must give and hazard all he bath.
Muft give, for what? for lead? hazard for lead?
This cafket threatens. Men, that hazard all,
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to fhows of drofs,
I'll then not give nor hazard ought for lead.
What fays the filver with her virgin hue?
Who choofeth me, fhall get as much as he deferves.
As much as he deferves? pause there, Morochius,
And weigh thy value with an even hand :
If thou be'ft rated by thy estimation,
Thou doft deserve enough, and yet enough
May not extend fo far as to the lady;
yet to be afraid of my deserving,
Were but a weak difabling of myself.
As much as I deferve?—why, that's the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding:
But more than thefe, in love I do deserve.
What if I ftray'd no farther, but chose here?
Let's fee once more this saying grav'd in gold :
Who choofeth me, fhall gain what many men defire.
Why, that's the lady all the world defires her:
From the four corners of the earth they come
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.
Th' Hircanian deferts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now,
For princes to come view fair Portia.
The wat'ry kingdom, whofe ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign fpirits; but they come,
As o'er a brook, to fee fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heav'nly picture.
Is't like that lead contains her? 'twere damnation
To think fo base a thought: it were too grofs
To rib her fearcloth in the obfcure grave.
Or fhall I think, in filver fhe's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalu'd to try'd gold?
O finful thought! never fo rich a gem
Was fet in worse than gold. They have in England.
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold, but that's infculp'd upon :
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within. Deliver me the key;
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may !
Por. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours.
[unlocking the golden cafket.
Mor. O hell! what have we here? a carrion death, Within whose empty eye there is a scroll: