Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's; [Going. [Antonio and Bassanio cross to R. Christian ; he grows kind. Bass. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. Ant. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; CURTAIN, Shylock 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. "Via!" says the fiend; 66 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, budge not:" "Budge," says the fiend; "Budge not," says my conscience. Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, say I, you counsel well: to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew, my master, who (bless the mark!) is a kind of devil; and to run away from the Jew I should be ruled 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 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 commandment; I will run. [Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket, R. I. E. 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 upon 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. By sonties, 't will 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 ? - Mark me -[Aside.] now will I raise the waters: [To Gobbo.] young master Launcelot ? now -Talk you of Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father, though I say 't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, heaven be thanked, well to live. Laun. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young master Launcelot. Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young master Launcelot Gob. Of Launcelot, an 't please your mastership. Laun. Ergo, master Launcelot; talk not of master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman (according to fates and destinies, and such odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches of learning) is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. Gob. Marry, heaven forbid; the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff, or a prop?-[To Gobbo.] Do you know me, father? Gob. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy (heaven rest his soul!) alive or dead? Laun. Do you not know me, father ? Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: Give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may; but, in the end, truth will [Launcelot kneels with his back towards Gobbo. out. Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. Gob. I cannot think you are my son. Laun. I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man; and I am sure Margery, your wife, is my mother. Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed; I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin, my phill-horse, has on his tail. Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face, when I last saw him. Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now? |