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ACT II. SCENE I. Belmont. PORTIA'S house

Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four FOLLOWERS accordingly, with PORTIA, NERISSA, and train

  PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion,
    The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun,
    To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
    Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
    Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
    And let us make incision for your love
    To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
    I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
    Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear
    The best-regarded virgins of our clime
    Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue,
    Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
  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 'a 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 band.
    So is Alcides beaten by his page;
    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, and exeunt]

SCENE II. Venice. A street

Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO

  LAUNCELOT. 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, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good
Gobbo' or
    'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run
away.'
    My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take
heed,
    honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do
not
    run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous
    fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' 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 Launcelot,
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 'Launcelot, 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 rul'd 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.

Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket

GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit! Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.- Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy- God rest his soul!- alive or dead? LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot my boy.