The Merchant of Venice, Act 1, Scene 1

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.

Truly, I don't know why I'm so sad. It tires me; you say it tires you. But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what it's made of, where it was born, I still have to learn. And this sadness makes such a fool of me that I have great trouble recognizing myself.

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.

Your mind is rocking out on the ocean, out there where your great merchant ships, with their swelling sails like lords and wealthy citizens riding the water, or like floating parade displays, look down on the little trading boats that bob to them and bow to them as they fly past with their canvas wings.

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.

Believe me, sir, if I had such a risky cargo out there, most of my feelings would be abroad with my hopes. I'd always be pulling up grass to see which way the wind was blowing, poring over maps for harbours, docks and anchorages; and every single thing that might make me fear bad luck for my ventures would certainly 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, 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 bechanc’d would make me sad? But tell not me, I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

My own breath cooling my soup would give me a shivering fever when I thought what damage too strong a wind could do at sea. I couldn't watch the sand run through an hourglass without thinking of sandbanks and shallows, and seeing my rich ship the Andrew stuck fast in sand, lowering her masthead below her hull to kiss her own grave. If I went to church and saw the holy stone building, wouldn't I immediately think of dangerous rocks that, with the slightest touch on my fragile ship's side, would scatter all her spices on the water and dress the roaring waves in my silks — in short, worth all that one moment and worth nothing the next? Can I have the imagination to think of this and not have the imagination to see that if such a thing happened it would make me sad? Don't argue with me: I know Antonio is sad from thinking about his goods.

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.

Believe me, no. I'm grateful to my luck for this: my investments aren't entrusted to a single ship, nor to a single destination; nor does my whole fortune depend on how this one year turns out. So it isn't my goods that make me sad.

Why then you are in love.

Well then, you're in love.

Fie, fie!

Nonsense, nonsense!

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 fram’d strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper. And other of such vinegar aspect That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Not in love either? Then let's say you're sad because you're not happy; and it would be just as easy for you to laugh and jump about and say you're happy because you're not sad. Now, by two-faced Janus, nature has shaped some strange people in her time: some who will forever be squinting with amusement and laughing like parrots at a man playing the bagpipes, and others with such sour faces that they won't show their teeth in a smile even if Nestor swears the joke is funny.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company.

Here comes Bassanio, your very noble relative, with Gratiano and Lorenzo. Goodbye. We'll leave you now with better company.

I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.

I would have stayed until I'd cheered you up, if worthier friends hadn't got there first.

Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th’ occasion to depart.

Your worth is very precious in my eyes. I take it your own business is calling you, and you're seizing the chance to leave.

Good morrow, my good lords.

Good morning, my good lords.

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?

Good sirs, both of you, when shall we have a laugh together? Tell me, when? You're becoming very distant. Does it have to be like this?

We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.

We'll arrange our free time to suit yours.

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.

My Lord Bassanio, now that you've found Antonio, the two of us will leave you; but at dinner-time please remember where we're to meet.

I will not fail you.

I won't let you down.

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 chang’d.

You don't look well, Signior Antonio. You care too much about worldly affairs. People who buy worldly success with so much worry end up losing it. Believe me, you're astonishingly changed.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.

I take the world for nothing more than it is, Gratiano: a stage, where every man has to play a part, and mine is a sad one.

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 ’tis 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.” 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. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while. I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.

Then let me play the clown. Let the wrinkles of age come from fun and laughter, and let my liver be heated with wine rather than my heart chilled by deadening groans. Why should a man with warm blood in him sit as still as his grandfather carved in alabaster? Sleep while he's awake, and turn yellow with jaundice from being bad-tempered? I'll tell you something, Antonio — I love you, and it's my love speaking — there's a type of man whose faces get a film over them like a stagnant pond, and who keep up a deliberate silence with the aim of being credited with a reputation for wisdom, seriousness and deep thought, as if to say, "I am Sir Oracle, and when I open my mouth, let not even a dog bark." Oh, my Antonio, I know men who are reputed wise only because they say nothing; and I'm quite certain that if they did speak, they'd practically damn the ears that heard them, since anyone listening would call their brothers fools. I'll tell you more about this some other time. But don't go fishing with this gloomy bait for that foolish little fish, other people's good opinion. Come along, good Lorenzo. Goodbye for now. I'll finish my sermon after dinner.

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.

Well, we'll leave you then until dinner-time. I must be one of those silent wise men, because Gratiano never lets me get a word in.

Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Well, stay in my company just two more years and you won't remember what your own voice sounds like.

Fare you well. I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

Goodbye. I'll turn into a chatterer myself at this rate.

Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.

Thank you, honestly, because silence is only admirable in a dried ox tongue and in a girl nobody will buy.

Is that anything now?

Was any of that worth anything?

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all 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.

Gratiano talks an endless amount of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His sensible points are like two grains of wheat hidden in two bushels of husks: you can search all day before you find them, and when you have them they're not worth the trouble.

Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you today promis’d to tell me of?

Now then, tell me: who is this lady you swore to make a secret pilgrimage to, the one you promised today you'd tell me about?

’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 abridg’d 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 gag’d. 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.

You know very well, Antonio, how much I've damaged my finances by keeping up a grander style of living than my slender means could afford to maintain. I'm not complaining now at having to cut back from such a noble level; my main concern is to get honourably clear of the large debts that my rather too extravagant way of life has left me pledged to. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love, and your love gives me the licence to unload all my plans and schemes for getting clear of all the debts I owe.

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur’d My purse, my person, my extremest means Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.

Please, good Bassanio, let me hear it; and if it stands, as you yourself always do, within the bounds of honour, be certain that my purse, my person, my utmost resources are all wide open to your needs.

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 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.

In my schooldays, when I had lost one arrow, I shot its twin with the same range in the very same direction, watching more carefully, so as to find the first one; and by risking both I often got both back. I bring up this childhood example because what comes next is completely innocent. I owe you a great deal, and, like a reckless young man, what I owe is lost. But if you're willing to shoot another arrow the same way you shot the first, I have no fear that — since I'll be watching where it goes — I'll either find both, or bring back your second stake and remain gratefully in your debt for the first.

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.

You know me well, and you're merely wasting time here going round and round my affection with elaborate speeches; and you certainly do me more wrong now by calling into question whether I'd do my utmost than if you'd squandered everything I own. So just tell me what I should do that, as far as you know, is within my power, and I'm ready for it. So speak.

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 undervalu’d 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’ strond, 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.

In Belmont there's a lady who has been left a fortune, and she is beautiful, and — better than that word — wonderfully virtuous. At times I received lovely wordless messages from her eyes. Her name is Portia, in no way inferior to Cato's daughter, Brutus's Portia. And the wide world isn't unaware of her worth, for the four winds blow in famous suitors from every shore, and her sunlit hair hangs at her temples like a golden fleece, which makes her home at Belmont the shore of Colchos, with many Jasons coming to seek her. Oh, my Antonio, if I only had the means to stand as an equal rival to one of them, I have a feeling that promises me such success that I'd undoubtedly come out lucky.

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. 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.

You know that all my wealth is at sea; I have neither cash nor goods to raise a sum right now. So go out and see what my credit can do in Venice; it shall be stretched to its absolute limit to fit you out for Belmont, for the lovely Portia. Go at once and ask, as I will too, where money is to be had, and I have no doubt I'll get it on my credit or as a favour to me.