PORTIA.
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;
Besides, the lott’ry 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 rage,
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. Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Venice. A street.
Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone.
LAUNCELET.
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, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says “No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” 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 Launcelet, 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 “Launcelet, 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 incarnation, 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.