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    The Merchant of Venice
    The Merchant of Venice
    The Merchant of Venice
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    The Merchant of Venice

    By William Shakespeare

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    The Merchant of Venice is a 16th century play by William Shakespeare in which a merchant in Venice must default on a large loan provided by an abused Jewish moneylender. It is believed to have been written between 1596 and 1599. Though classified as a comedy in the First Folio and sharing certain aspects with Shakespeare's other romantic comedies, the play is perhaps most remembered for its dramatic scenes, and is best known for Shylock and the famous "Hath not a Jew eyes?" speech. Also notable is Portia's speech about "the quality of mercy".
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStudium Legis
    Release dateMar 30, 2017
    ISBN9788826069302
    Author

    William Shakespeare

    William Shakespeare is the world's greatest ever playwright. Born in 1564, he split his time between Stratford-upon-Avon and London, where he worked as a playwright, poet and actor. In 1582 he married Anne Hathaway. Shakespeare died in 1616 at the age of fifty-two, leaving three children—Susanna, Hamnet and Judith. The rest is silence.

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      Book preview

      The Merchant of Venice - William Shakespeare

      The Merchant of Venice

      William Shakespeare

      Table of Contents

      Characters of the Play

      Act I

      Scene I. Venice. A street.

      Scene II: Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Scene III. Venice. A public place.

      Act II

      Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Scene II. Venice. A street.

      Scene III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house.

      Scene IV. The same. A street.

      Scene V. The same. Before Shylock’s house.

      Scene VI. The same.

      Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Scene VIII. Venice. A street.

      Scene IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Act III

      Scene I. Venice. A street.

      Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Scene III. Venice. A street.

      Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.

      Scene V. The same. A garden.

      Act IV

      Scene I. Venice. A court of justice.

      Scene II. The same. A street.

      Act V

      Scene I. Belmont. Avenue to Portia’s house.

      List of Illustrations

      [view slideshow ]

      Till I see my ring, I will not again look upon your face

      I will collect the Ducats and follow you as speedily as may be

      Do you not remember, Lady, a venetian, a young soldier?

      Look to my house — yes, look to it well

      Take this packet, she cried

      The Duke shall grant me Justice

      Here choose I. Joy be the consequence

      A pound of that same Merchant’s flesh is yours

      Characters of the Play

      The Duke of Venice.

      The Prince of Arragon and The Prince of Morocco, suitors to Portia.

      Antonio, a merchant.

      Bassanio, his friend.

      Salanio, Salarino, and Gratiano, friends to Antonio and Bassanio.

      Lorenzo, in love with Jessica.

      Shylock, a rich Jew.

      Tubal, a Jew, his friend.

      Launcelot Gobbo, a clown, servant to Shylock.

      Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot.

      Leonardo, servant to Bassanio.

      Balthasar and Stephano, servants 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.

      Act I

      Scene I. Venice. A street.

      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.

      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.

      Salanio Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

      The better 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.

      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.

      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,

      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 bechanced would make me sad?

      But tell not me; I know, Antonio

      Is sad to think upon 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.

      Salarino Why, then you are in love.

      Antonio Fie, fie!

      Salarino Not in love neither? 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. 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.

      Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano

      Salanio Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

      Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

      We leave you now with better company.

      Salarino I would have stay’d till I had made you merry,

      If worthier friends had not prevented me.

      Antonio Your worth is very dear in my regard.

      I take it, your own business calls on you

      And you embrace the occasion to depart.

      Salarino Good morrow, my good lords.

      Bassanio Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?

      You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

      Salarino We’ll make our leisures to attend on 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.

      Bassanio I will not 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.

      Antonio I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

      A stage where every man must play a part,

      And mine 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.

      Why 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,

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