The Merchant of Venice | Page 8

2.
SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his?Followers;?PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.]
PRINCE OF Morocco.?Mislike me not for my complexion,?The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,?To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.?Bring me the fairest creature northward born,?Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,?And let us make incision for your love?To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.?I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine?Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear?The best-regarded virgins of our clime?Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue,?Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
PORTIA.?In terms of choice I am not solely led?By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;?Besides, the lottery of my destiny?Bars me the right of voluntary choosing;?But, if my father had not scanted me?And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself?His wife who wins me by that means I told you,?Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair?As any comer I have look'd on yet?For my affection.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.?Even for that I thank you:?Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets?To try my fortune. By this scimitar,--?That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince,?That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,--?I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look,?Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,?Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,?Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,?To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!?If Hercules and Lichas play at dice?Which is the better man, the greater throw?May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:?So is Alcides beaten by his page;?And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,?Miss that which one unworthier may attain,?And die with grieving.
PORTIA.?You must take your chance,?And either not attempt to choose at all,?Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,?Never to speak to lady afterward?In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.?Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance.
PORTIA.?First, forward to the temple: after dinner?Your hazard shall be made.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.?Good fortune then!?To make me blest or cursed'st among men!
[Cornets, and exeunt.]
SCENE 2. Venice. A street
[Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.]
LAUNCELOT.?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; '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, God 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 incarnal; and, in my conscience, my?conscience is but 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]
GOBBO.?Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT.?[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.
GOBBO.?Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT.?Turn up on 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.
GOBBO.?Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
LAUNCELOT.?Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me?now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master?Launcelot?
GOBBO.?No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I?say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.
LAUNCELOT.?Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young?Master Launcelot.
GOBBO.?Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.
LAUNCELOT.?But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk?you