HUBERT
Who’s there? Speak, ho! Speak quickly, or I shoot.
BASTARD
A friend. What art thou?
HUBERT Of the part of England.
BASTARD
Whither dost thou go?
HUBERT What’s that to thee?
Why may not I demand of thine affairs
As well as thou of mine?
BASTARD Hubert, I think.
HUBERT Thou hast a perfect thought.
I will upon all hazards well believe
Thou art my friend that know’st my tongue so well.
Who art thou?
BASTARD Who thou wilt. An if thou please,
Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.
HUBERT
Unkind remembrance! Thou and eyeless night
Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me
That any accent breaking from thy tongue
Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
BASTARD
Come, come, sans compliment. What news abroad?
HUBERT
Why, here walk I in the black brow of night
To find you out.
BASTARD Brief, then, and what’s the news?
HUBERT
O my sweet sir, news fitting to the night:
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.
BASTARD
Show me the very wound of this ill news;
I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it.
HUBERT
The King, I fear, is poisoned by a monk.
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
To acquaint you with this evil, that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time
Than if you had at leisure known of this.
BASTARD
How did he take it? Who did taste to him?
HUBERT
A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain,
Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King
Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.
BASTARD
Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?
HUBERT
Why, know you not? The lords are all come back,
And brought Prince Henry in their company,
At whose request the King hath pardoned them,
And they are all about his majesty.
BASTARD
Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,
And tempt us not to bear above our power.
I’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide.
These Lincoln Washes have devoured them;
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.
Away before! Conduct me to the King.
I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. Exeunt
5.7 Enter Prince Henry, the Earl of Salisbury, and Lord Bigot
PRINCE HENRY
It is too late. The life of all his blood
Is touched corruptibly, and his pure brain,
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house,
Doth by the idle comments that it makes
Foretell the ending of mortality.
Enter the Earl of Pembroke
PEMBROKE
His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief
That being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
PRINCE HENRY
Let him be brought into the orchard here.—⌈Exit Lord Bigot⌉
Doth he still rage?
PEMBROKE He is more patient
Than when you left him. Even now, he sung.
PRINCE HENRY
O, vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death, having preyed upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invincible, and his siege is now
Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies,
Which in their throng and press to that last hold
Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should
sing.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.
SALISBURY
Be of good comfort, Prince, for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.
King John is brought in, ⌈with Lord Bigot attending⌉
KING JOHN
Ay marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom
That all my bowels crumble up to dust;
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
PRINCE HENRY How fares your majesty?
KING JOHN
Poisoned, ill fare! Dead, forsook, cast off;
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw,
Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course
Through my burned bosom, nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parchèd lips 40
And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much;
I beg cold comfort, and you are so strait
And so ingrateful you deny me that.
PRINCE HENRY
O, that there were some virtue in my tears
That might relieve you!
KING JOHN The salt in them is hot.
Within me is a hell, and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confined to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.
Enter the Bastard
BASTARD
O, I am scalded with my violent motion
And spleen of speed to see your majesty!
KING JOHN
O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye.
The tackle of my heart is cracked and burnt,
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail
Are turned to one thread, one little hair;
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered,
And then all this thou seest is but a clod
And module of confounded royalty.
BASTARD
The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where God He knows how we shall answer him;
For in a night the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the Washes all unwarily
Devoured by the unexpected flood.
King John dies
SALISBURY
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.
(To King John) My liege, my lord!—But now a king,
now thus.
PRINCE HENRY
Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king and now is clay?
BASTARD (to King John)
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind
To do the office for thee of revenge,
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.
(To the lords) Now, now, you stars that move in your
right spheres,
Where be your powers? Show now your mended
faiths,
And instantly return with me again,
To push destruction and perpetual shame
Out of the weak door of our fainting land.
Straight let us seek, or
straight we shall be sought.
The Dauphin rages at our very heels.
SALISBURY
It seems you know not, then, so much as we.
The Cardinal Pandolf is within at rest,
Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin,
And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.
BASTARD
He will the rather do it when he sees
Ourselves well-sinewed to our own defence.
SALISBURY
Nay, ’tis in a manner done already,
For many carriages he hath dispatched
To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel
To the disposing of the Cardinal,
With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To consummate this business happily.
BASTARD
Let it be so.—And you, my noble prince,
With other princes that may best be spared,
Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.
PRINCE HENRY
At Worcester must his body be interred,
For so he willed it.
BASTARD Thither shall it then, 100
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land,
To whom with all submission, on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services
And true subjection everlastingly. 105
He kneels
SALISBURY
And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore.
Salisbury, Pembroke and Bigot kneel
PRINCE HENRY
I have a kind of soul that would give thanks,
And knows not how to do it but with tears.
He weeps
BASTARD ⌈rising⌉
O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.
This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms
And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.
⌈Flourish.⌉ Exeunt ⌈with the body⌉
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
ENTRY of ‘a book of The Merchant of Venice or otherwise called The Jew of Venice’ in the Stationers’ Register on 22July 1598 probably represents an attempt by Shakespeare’s company to prevent the unauthorized printing of a popular play: it eventually appeared in print as ‘The Comical History of the Merchant of Venice’ in 1600, when it was said to have ‘been divers times acted by the Lord Chamberlain his servants’; probably Shakespeare wrote it in 1596 or 1597. The alternative title—The Jew of Venice—may reflect Shylock’s impact on the play’s first audiences.
The play is constructed on the basis of two romantic tales using motifs well known to sixteenth-century readers. The story of Giannetto (Shakespeare’s Bassanio) and the Lady (Portia) of Belmont comes from an Italian collection of fifty stories published under the title of II Pecorone (‘the big sheep’, or ‘dunce’) and attributed to one Ser Giovanni of Fiorentino. Written in the later part of the fourteenth century, the volume did not appear until 1558. No sixteenth-century translation is known, so (unless there was a lost intermediary) Shakespeare must have read it in Italian. It gave him the main outline of the plot involving Antonio (the merchant), Bassanio (the wooer), Portia, and the Jew (Shylock). The pound of flesh motif was available also in other versions, one of which, in Alexander Silvayn’s The Orator (translated 1596), influenced the climactic scene (4.1) in which Shylock attempts to exact the full penalty of his bond.
In the story from II Pecorone the lady (a widow) challenges her suitors to seduce her, on pain of the forfeiture of their wealth, and thwarts them by drugging their wine. Shakespeare more romantically shows a maiden required by her father’s will to accept only a wooer who will forswear marriage if he fails to make the right choice among caskets of gold, silver and lead. The story of the caskets was readily available in versions by John Gower (in his Confessio Amantis) and Giovanni Boccaccio (in his Decameron), and in an anonymous anthology (the Gesta Romanorum). Shakespeare added the character ofJessica, Shylock’s daughter who elopes with the Christian Lorenzo—perhaps influenced by episodes in Christopher Marlowe’s play The Jew of Malta (c.1589)—and made many adjustments to the stories from which he borrowed.
The Merchant of Venice is a natural development from Shakespeare’s earlier comedies, especially The Two Gentlemen of Verona, with its heroine disguised as a boy and its portrayal of the competing demands of love and friendship. But Portia is the first of his great romantic heroines, and Shylock his first great comic antagonist. Though the play grew out of fairy tales, its moral scheme is not entirely clear cut: the Christians are open to criticism, the Jew is true to his own code of conduct. The response of twentieth-century and later audiences has been complicated by racial issues; in any case, the role of Shylock affords such strong opportunities for an actor capable of arousing an undercurrent of sympathy for a vindictive character that it has sometimes unbalanced the play in performance. But the so-called trial scene (4.1) is unfailing in its impact on audiences, and the closing episodes modulate skilfully from romantic lyricism to high comedy, while sustaining the play’s concern with true and false values.
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice
BASSANIO, his friend and Portia’s suitor
LEONARDO, Bassanio’s servant
SHYLOCK, a Jew
JESSICA, his daughter
TUBAL, a Jew
LANCELOT, a clown, first Shylock’s servant and then Bassanio’s
GOBBO, his father
PORTIA, an heiress
NERISSA, her waiting-gentlewoman
DUKE of Venice
Magnificoes of Venice
A jailer, attendants, and servants
The Comical History of the Merchant of Venice, or Otherwise Called the Jew of Venice
1.1 Enter Antonio, Salerio, and Solanio
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.
SALERIO
Your mind is tossing on the ocean,
There where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signors 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.
SOLANIO (to Antonio)
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.
SALERIO 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, decks in sand,
Vailing her hightop lower than her ribs
To kiss he
r burial. Should I go to church
And see the holy edifice of stone 30
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 bechanced would make me sad?
But tell not me. I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
ANTONIO
Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it,
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year.
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
SOLANIO
Why then, you are in love.
ANTONIOFie, fie.
SOLANIO
Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad
Because you are not merry, and ’twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes
And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper,
And other of such vinegar aspect
That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Graziano
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Graziano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well.
We leave you now with better company.
SALERIO
I would have stayed till I had made you merry
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
ANTONIO
Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you,
And you embrace th’occasion to depart.
SALERIO Good morrow, my good lords. 65
BASSANIO
Good signors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when?
You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?
SALERIO
We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.
The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works Page 152