William Shakespeare - Ultimate Collection: Complete Plays & Poetry in One Volume. William ShakespeareЧитать онлайн книгу.
I find an apt remission in myself;
And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon.—
You, sirrah [to Lucio], that knew me for a fool, a coward,
One all of luxury, an ass, a madman;
Wherein have I so deserved of you
That you extol me thus?
LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.
DUKE.
Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after.—
Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city,
If any woman wrong’d by this lewd fellow,—
As I have heard him swear himself there’s one
Whom he begot with child,—let her appear,
And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,
Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.
LUCIO. I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore! Your highness said even now I made you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.
DUKE.
Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.
Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal
Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison;
And see our pleasure herein executed.
LUCIO. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.
DUKE.
Slandering a prince deserves it.—
[Exeunt Officers with LUCIO.]
She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.—
Joy to you, Mariana!—Love her, Angelo;
I have confess’d her, and I know her virtue.—
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness
There’s more behind that is more gratulate.
Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy;
We shall employ thee in a worthier place.—
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home
The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s:
The offence pardons itself.—Dear Isabel,
I have a motion much imports your good;
Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline,
What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine:—
So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show
What’s yet behind that’s meet you all should know.
[Exeunt.]
THE END
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
By William Shakespeare
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE DUKE OF VENICE
THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia
THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia
ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice
BASSANIO, his friend
SALANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio
SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio
GRATIANO, friend 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, servant to Portia
STEPHANO, servant 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 to Portia, and other Attendants
SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent
ACT 1.
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 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