THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

	DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The DUKE OF VENICE. (DUKE:)

The PRINCE OF		|
MOROCCO	(MOROCCO:)	|
		|  suitors to Portia.
The PRINCE OF		|
ARRAGON	(ARRAGON:)	|

ANTONIO	a merchant of Venice.

BASSANIO	his friend, suitor likewise to Portia.

SALANIO	|
	|
SALARINO	|
	|  friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
GRATIANO	|
	|
SALERIO	|

LORENZO	in love with Jessica.

SHYLOCK	a rich Jew.

TUBAL	a Jew, his friend.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO	the clown, servant to SHYLOCK. (LAUNCELOT:)

OLD GOBBO	father to Launcelot. (GOBBO:)

LEONARDO	servant to BASSANIO.

BALTHASAR	|
	|  servants to PORTIA.
STEPHANO	|

PORTIA	a rich heiress.

NERISSA	her waiting-maid.

JESSICA	daughter to SHYLOCK.

	Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
	Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants.
	(Servant:)
	(Clerk:)

SCENE	Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont,
	the seat of PORTIA, on the Continent.

	THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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,