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Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.

Shy. No, not take interest; not, as you would

say,

Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

When Leban and himself were compromis’d

That all the eanlings which were streak’d and

pied                                                   [rank,

Should fall as Jacob’s hire; the ewes, being

In end of autumn turned to the rams:

And when the work of generation was

Between these wooly breeders in the act,

The skillful shepherd peel’d me certain wands,

And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time

Fall party-colour’d lambs, and those were

Jacob’s

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest;

And thrift is blessing if men steal it not.

Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob

serv’d for;

A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

But sway’d and fashion’d by the had of

heaven.

Was this inserted to make interest good?

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

Shy. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:—

But note me, signior.

Ant.                         Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

An evil soul producing holy witness

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek—

A goodly apple rotten at the heart:

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Shy. Three thousand ducats,—’tis a good

round sum.                                    [rate.

Three months from twelve, then let me see the

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to

you?

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,

In the Rialto, , you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well, then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to, then; you come to me, and you say,

Shylock, we would have moneys:—you say so;

You,, that did void your rheum upon my beard,

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold: moneys is your suit.

What should I say to you? Should I not say,

Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key,

With ‘bated breath and whispering humbleness

Say this?—

Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last.

You spurn’d me such a day; another time

You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies

I’ll lend you thus much moneys.

Ant. I am as like to call thee so again,

To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.

(On 12/20/14 – Join me for the continuation of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this

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.      it;

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know

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.          [shaft,

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

The self-same way, with more advised watch,

To find the other forth; and by advent’ring

both

I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,

Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much; and, like a willful youth,

That which I owe is lost: but if you please

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.   [time

Ant. You know me well, and herein spent but

To wind about my love with circumstance;

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong,

In making question of my uttermost,

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

Hang 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, had 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.

(On 12/19/14 – Join me for the continuation of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.

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,

Thy should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the

jaundice

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,

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

ears                                                      [fools.

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.—

Com, good Lorenzo.—Fare ye well awhile;

I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.      [time:

Lar. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.          [moe,

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own

tongue.

Ant. Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this

gear.

Gra. Thanks, i’ faith; for silence is only

commendable                           [dible.

In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not ven-

[Exeunt GRA. and LOR.

Ant. Is that anything now?

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of

nothing, more than any man in all Venice.

His reasons are as two gains 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.                       [same.

(On 12/18/14 – Join me for the continuation of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.

But tell not me; I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandize.     [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 merchandize makes me not sad.

Solan. Why, then you are in love.

Ant.                                            Fie, fie!

Solan. 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 framed strange fellows in her time:

Some that will ever more peep through their

eyes,

And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper:

And other of such vinegar aspect,

That they’ll not show their teeth in way of

smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well;

We leave you now with better company.

Solar. I would have stay’d till I had made

you 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.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.

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 SALAR. and SOLAN.

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 marvelously 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.

(On 12/17/14 – Join me for the continuation of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

DUKE OF VENICE.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO, Suitor to PORTIA.

PRINCE OF ARRAGON, Suitor to PORTIA.

ANTONIO, the Merchant of Venice.

BASSANIO, his Friend.

SOLANIO, Friend to ANTONIO and BASSANIO.

SALARINO, Friend to ANTONIO and BASSANIO.

GRATIANO, Friend to ANTONIO and BASSANIO.

LORENZO, in love with JESSICA.

SHYLOCK, a Jew.

TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown, Servant to SHYLOCK.

OLD GOBBO, Father to LAUNCELOT.

SALERIO, a Messenger from Venice.

LEONARDO, Servant to BASSANIO.

BALTHAZAR, Servant to PORTIA.

STEPHANO, Servant to PORTIA.

PORTIA, a rich Heiress.

NERISSA, her Waiting-maid.

JESSICA, Daughter to SHYLOCK.

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

SCENE,—Partly at VENICE, and partly at BELMONT, the Seat of PORTIA, on the Continent.

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and  SOLANIO.

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,—

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, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Soloan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture

forth,

The beter 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 piers, and roads;

And every object that might make me fear

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

Would make me sad.

Solar.                   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 flats,

And see my wealthy Andrew doc’d in sand,

Vailing her 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?

(On 12/16/14 – Join me for the continuation of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

Love’s Labour’s Lost

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT V. SCENE I.—Another part of the Park.

Biron. A twelvemonth! well, befall what

will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

Prin. Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my

leave.                                  [To the KING.

King. No, madam: we will bring you on

your way.                                  [play;

Biron. Our wooing doth not end like and old

Jack hath not Jill: thee ladies’ courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy.

King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth

and a day,

And then ’twill end.

Biron.                  That’s too long for a play.

Enter ARMADO.

Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,—

Prin. Was not that Hector?

Dum. The worthy knight of Troy,

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take

leave: I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquen-

etta to hold the plough for her sweet love three

years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you

hear the dialogue that the two learned men

have complied in praise of the wol and the

cuckoo? it should have followed in the end of

our show.

King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so.

Arm. Holla! approach.

Enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, MOTH,

COSTARD, and others.

This side is Hiems, Winter—this Ver, the

Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the

other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.

SONG.

I.

Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue,

And lady-smocks all silver-white,

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men, for thus sings he—

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo,—O word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

II.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,

When turtles tread, and rooks and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men, for thus sings he—

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo,—O word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

III.

Winter. When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl—

To-who;

To-whit, to-who, a merry note.

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl—

To-who;

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after

the songs of Apollo. You that way; we this way.

[Exeunt.

(On 12/15/14 – Join me for the start of “The Merchant of Venice”,

ACT I. SCENE I.—VENICE. A Street.


Taken from the Complete Works of William Shakespeare

Love’s Labour’s Lost

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT V. SCENE I.—Another part of the Park.

King. If this , or more than this, I would deny,

To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,

The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence ever, then, my heart is in thy breath.

Biron. And what to me, my love? and what

to me?                                           [rank;

Ros. You must be purged too; your sins are

You are attaint with faults and perjury;

Therefore, if you my favour mean to get,

A twelvemonth shall you spend, and nerve rest,

But seek the weary beds of people sick.

Dum. But what to me, my love? but what

to me?

Kath. A wife?—A beard, fair health, and

honesty;

With threefold love I wish you all these three.

Dum. O, shall I say I thank you, gentle

wife?

Kath. Not so, my lord;—a twelvemonth and

a day                                                [say:

I’ll mark no words that smooth-fac’d wooers

Come when the king doth to my lady come,

Then, if I have much love I’ll give you some.

Dum: I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till

then.

Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn

again.

Long. What says Maria?

Mar.                   At the twelvemonths’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long. I’ll stay with patience; but the time

is long.

Mar. The liker you; few taller are so young.

Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on

me;

Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

what humble suit attends thy answer there!

Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord

Biron,

Before I saw you: and the world’s large tongue

proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,

Which you on all estates will execute

That lie within the mercy of your wit.

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful

brain,

And therewithal to win me, if you please,—

Without the which I am not to be won,—

You shall this twelvemonth term from day to

day

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat

of death!

It cannot be; it is impossible:

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing

spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it: then if stickly ears,

Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear

groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue them,

And I will have you and that fault withal;

But if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault,

Right joyful of your reformation.

(On 12/14/14 – Join me for the continuation of “Love’s Labour’s Lost”,

ACT V. SCENE II.—Another part of the Park.

love labours lost