« PředchozíPokračovat »
Duke of Venice.
Prince of Morocco,
Antonio, the merchant of Venice.
Bassanio, his friend.
friends 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, seroant to Bassanio.
servants to Portia. Stephano,
Portia, a rich heiress.
Nerissa, her waiting maid.
Jessica, daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, officers of the court of Jus.
tice, jailer, seroants, and other attendants. Scene, partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont,
the seat of Portia, on the Continent.
In sooth, I kuow 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.
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would'
* Ships of large burthen,
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.
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 dock'd in sand,
Vailing* 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;
Eurobe 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, bechane'd, would make me sad!
Büt, tell not me; I know, Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandize.
Ant. 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 merchandize makes me not sad.
Salan. Why theo you are in love,
Salan. Nol in love neither? Then let's say, you
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say, you are mercy,
Because you are not sad. Now, by tworbeaded