1 Enter Antonio, Salarino and Solanio.
2 Good sentences, and well pronounc'd.
3 Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano.
4 I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost.
5 Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo.
6 Thanks, i faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
7 In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues.
8 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.
9 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.
10 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.
11 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.
12 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.
13 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.
14 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.
15 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.
16 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.
17 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.
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