The Merchant of Venice
Act I, Scene I
Venice. A street.
Antonio, a wealthy Venetian merchant, walks a Venetian street with two friends, Salarino and Salanio. He confesses to a sadness he cannot account for. The friends offer two diagnoses he rejects in turn: first that his merchant fortune, scattered across cargo ships at sea, is making him anxious (he reassures them his ventures are diversified); then that he is in love (he dismisses it). When Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano arrive, Salarino and Salanio tactfully take their leave. Gratiano launches into an exuberant speech against people who pose as wise by saying nothing — those whose visages do cream and mantle like a standing pond — and then leaves with Lorenzo, promising to finish the lecture after dinner. Alone with Antonio, Bassanio admits he is deep in debt, much of it to Antonio himself, and proposes a way out: the rich heiress Portia, at Belmont, who has reminded him of Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia; he wants to go to Belmont and woo her. To do so competitively he needs money. Antonio has nothing in cash — everything is at sea — but his credit is at Bassanio’s disposal: my purse, my person, my extremest means, lie all unlock’d to your occasions. Together they will borrow against him, in Venice, to fund the courtship.
The play opens with an unaccountable melancholy and a financial offer. Antonio cannot say why he is sad, and Shakespeare does not solve the puzzle for him; the line has been read as romantic restlessness, anxious love for Bassanio, dread of what the play is about to do to him, and simple temperamental gloom. The audience accepts that something is owed before knowing what or to whom. Bassanio’s plan, when it comes, is undisguised: he wants to marry Portia partly because he loves her and entirely because she is rich. The romantic-comedy frame and the financial frame are inseparable from line 1, and the play will not let them come apart. Antonio’s offer in response is more than generous; under any reasonable reading of risk it is suicidal — my purse, my person, my extremest means, and at the close that shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost. The bond plot is set in motion before Shylock has been named, before any Jew has appeared on stage, by a Christian merchant offering himself without limit as security for a friend’s courtship. Shylock’s entrance in 1.3 will accept that offer and turn its rhetorical extravagance into a precise contractual instrument. The melancholy at the scene’s opening turns out, in retrospect, to have been Antonio’s body knowing what his words were about to commit.
Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.
ANTONIO
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.
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.
Truly, I don’t know why I’m so sad. It wears me out; you say it wears you out too; but how I caught it, where I found it, what it’s made of, what it grew out of — I have yet to learn. And it makes such a witless creature of me that I have a hard time recognising myself.
SALARINO
Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Your mind is rolling about on the ocean — out there where your great merchant ships, sails set, ride like grand signiors and wealthy burghers down the flood, or like the floating pageants of the sea, looking down on the petty traders that curtsy in passing reverence as they sweep by under their woven wings of sail.
SALANIO
Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad.
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad.
Believe me, sir — if I had such a venture out at sea, the better part of my mind would be off 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.
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.
I’d be forever plucking up tufts of grass to test the wind, poring over maps for harbours and piers and shipping routes; and every object that hinted at misfortune to my ventures would, no question, make me sad.
SALARINO
My wind cooling my broth
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great at sea might do.
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great at sea might do.
Just my breath cooling my soup would chill me with fever, the moment I thought what harm a wind too strong at sea might do.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs
To kiss her burial.
But I should think of shallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs
To kiss her burial.
I couldn’t watch the sand run through an hour-glass without thinking of shallows and shoals — without seeing my rich ship Andrew run aground in sand, dipping her topmast lower than her ribs to kiss her own burial place.
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?
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?
Should I go to church and see the holy stonework, and not at once think of dangerous rocks — rocks which, just brushing the side of my own delicate ship, would scatter all her spices into the current, dress the roaring waters with my silks, and turn what was a moment ago worth a fortune into worth nothing?
Shall I have the thought
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?
Shall I be capable of imagining such a disaster, and lack the imagination to know that, if it actually happened, it would make me sad?
But tell not me; I know, Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
But save your breath: I know — Antonio is sad because he’s thinking about his merchandise.
ANTONIO
Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,
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.
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.
Believe me, no — and I thank my luck for it: my ventures aren’t all entrusted to one ship, nor to one port; nor does my whole fortune ride on this single year of trading. So my merchandise is not what makes me sad.
SALARINO
Why, then you are in love.
Why then, you must be in love.
ANTONIO
Fie, fie!
Oh, come on!
SALARINO
Not in love neither?
Not in love either?
Then let us say you are sad,
Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,
Because you are not sad.
Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,
Because you are not sad.
Well, then let’s just say you’re sad because you aren’t merry — and it would be just as easy for you to laugh and leap about and say you’re merry because you aren’t sad.
Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore 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.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore 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.
Now, by two-faced Janus, nature has framed some strange fellows in her time: some who will always peep at the world through narrowed eyes and laugh like parrots at a bagpipe, and others so vinegar-faced that they will not show their teeth even in a smile, even when grave old Nestor swears the joke is laughable.
Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.
SALANIO
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, with Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Fare ye well:
We leave you now with better company.
We leave you now with better company.
Farewell — we leave you now in better company.
SALARINO
I would have stay’d till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
I would have stayed till I’d cheered you up, if worthier friends hadn’t beaten me to it.
ANTONIO
Your worth is very dear in my regard.
Your worth is very dear to me.
I take it, your own business calls on you
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
I take it your own business is calling, and you’re glad of the occasion to take your leave.
SALARINO
Good morrow, my good lords.
Good morning, my good lords.
BASSANIO
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
Good signiors both — when shall we laugh together? Say when.
You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
You’re growing very distant from us — does it have to be so?
SALARINO
We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.
We’ll arrange our leisure to suit yours.
Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.
LORENZO
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.
We two will leave you: but at dinner-time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
My Lord Bassanio, since you’ve found Antonio, the two of us will leave you to him; but at dinner-time, please remember where we’re to meet.
BASSANIO
I will not fail you.
I won’t fail you.
GRATIANO
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 changed.
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care:
Believe me, you are marvellously changed.
You’re not looking well, Signior Antonio; you have too much regard for the world — they lose the world who buy it with too much worry. Believe me, you are marvellously changed.
ANTONIO
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
I take the world for what it is, Gratiano — a stage where every man must play a part, and mine is a sad one.
GRATIANO
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.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Let me play the fool — let mirth and laughter wrinkle me up, and let my liver heat itself with wine rather than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Why should a man with warm blood in him sit like his own grandfather carved in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish?
By being peevish?
Sleep with his eyes open and turn yellow with peevishness?
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!’
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!’
I’ll tell you what, Antonio — and I love you, and it is my love that’s speaking — there is a sort of men whose faces grow stale and scummy, like the surface of a standing pond, and who keep a wilful silence on purpose, hoping to be dressed in a reputation for wisdom, dignity, and profound insight: men whose silence says, “I am Sir Oracle, and when I open 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.
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.
O Antonio, I know these men — men reputed wise only because they say nothing; men who, if they actually opened their mouths, would damn the ears that heard them, ears that would have to call the listening brothers fools for listening.
I’ll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
I’ll tell you more of this another time — but don’t fish, with this melancholy bait of yours, for that fool of a fish, that reputation for wisdom.
Come, good Lorenzo.
Come, good Lorenzo.
Fare ye well awhile:
I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.
I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.
Farewell for a while — I’ll finish my sermon after dinner.
LORENZO
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.
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.
Well, we’ll leave you, then, till dinner-time; I must be one of these same silent wise men, since Gratiano never lets me speak.
GRATIANO
Well, keep me company but two years moe,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Well, keep me company two more years and you won’t know the sound of your own voice.
ANTONIO
Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this gear.
Farewell — I’ll turn into a talker myself, on this matter.
GRATIANO
Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable
In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
Thanks, in truth — for silence is only really praised in a dried ox-tongue, and in a girl who can’t find a husband.
Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.
ANTONIO
Is that any thing now?
Did any of that mean anything?
BASSANIO
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice.
Gratiano speaks an infinite amount of nothing — more than any man in all of 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.
His reasoning is like two grains of wheat hidden in two bushels of chaff: you’ll search all day before you find them, and when you’ve got them, they aren’t worth the search.
ANTONIO
Well, tell me now what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promised to tell me of?
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promised to tell me of?
Well, tell me now — who is the lady you swore your secret pilgrimage to, the one you promised today to tell me about?
BASSANIO
’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 abridged
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 gaged.
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 abridged
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 gaged.
It’s no secret to you, Antonio, how much I have crippled my own estate by carrying a grander style than my modest means could keep up — and I’m not now complaining at having to scale back from such a noble rate; my chief concern is to come honourably out from under the great debts that my somewhat prodigal years have left me bound by.
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.
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.
To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in both money and in love — and out of that love I have a kind of warrant to unburden myself of all my plans and purposes for getting clear of every debt I owe.
ANTONIO
I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assured,
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assured,
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.
Please, good Bassanio, tell me — and if it stands, as you yourself still stand, within the bounds of honour, then rest assured: my purse, my person, my last reserves are all unlocked and at your service.
BASSANIO
In my school-days, when I had lost one 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 adventuring both
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way with more advised watch,
To find the other forth, and by adventuring both
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
In my schoolboy days, when I’d lost an arrow, I’d shoot another arrow of the same kind in the same direction, watching it more carefully — to find the first by way of the second; and by hazarding both, I often found both. I bring up this childhood proof because what follows is pure innocence on my part.
I owe you much, and, like a wilful 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.
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.
I owe you a great deal, and like a wilful boy, what I owe is already lost; but if you would be willing to shoot another arrow the same way you shot the first, I don’t doubt — by watching the flight closely — that I will either find both, or bring back your second hazard, and remain thankfully your debtor for the first.
ANTONIO
You know me well, and herein 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
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 prest unto it: therefore, speak.
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 prest unto it: therefore, speak.
You know me well — you’re only wasting time wrapping my love in formalities; and you do me a worse wrong by questioning my utmost than if you had wasted everything I have. So just tell me what you need me to do, that lies in your knowledge of me to be done, and I am ready to do it. Speak.
BASSANIO
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.
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.
In Belmont, there is a lady richly left in her father’s will — and she is fair, and, fairer than that word, of wondrous virtues. Sometimes, from her eyes, I have received beautiful speechless messages. Her name is Portia, in no way undervalued by comparison with Cato’s daughter, Brutus’s Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth: from every coast the four winds blow in renowned suitors; her sunny hair hangs on her temples like a golden fleece — which turns her seat at Belmont into Colchos’s shore, 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!
To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me such thrift,
That I should questionless be fortunate!
O Antonio — if I had only the means to hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind that promises me such success that I would, no question, be fortunate!
ANTONIO
Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea;
Neither 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.
Neither 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.
You know that all my fortunes are at sea — I have neither cash nor goods on hand to raise a present sum. So go out, and try what my credit can do in Venice; it shall be stretched, to the very uttermost, to send you 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.
Where money is, and I no question make
To have it of my trust or for my sake.
Go, find out at once where money can be had; I’ll do the same. And I have no doubt I shall get it, on my reputation or for my own sake.
Exeunt. — End of Act I, Scene I.