The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  Thank you, Tubal! That’s good news! Good news!

  Ha ha! Where did you hear that? In Genoa?

  TUBAL

  Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one

  night fourscore ducats.

  Your daughter spent a lot of money in Genoa. I heard in one

  night she spent eighty ducats.

  SHYLOCK

  Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my

  gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting!

  fourscore ducats!

  Oh, you stick a knife in me! I will never see my

  gold again—eighty ducats in one night!

  Eighty ducats!

  TUBAL

  There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my

  company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.

  Several of Antonio’s creditors who I traveled

  with to Venice swear that he has no choice but to break his promise to pay you.

  SHYLOCK

  I am very glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture

  him: I am glad of it.

  I am glad to know this. I will torment and torture

  him about it. I am glad to know this.

  TUBAL

  One of them showed me a ring that he had of your

  daughter for a monkey.

  One of the creditors showed me a ring he had of yours

  that your daughter had given him to pay for a monkey.

  SHYLOCK

  Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my

  turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor:

  I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

  I am so angry with her! That tortured me, Tubal—that was my

  turquoise ring. Leah gave it to me before we were married.

  I would not have given it up for a jungle full of monkeys.

  TUBAL

  But Antonio is certainly undone.

  Antonio is certainly ruined.

  SHYLOCK

  Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee

  me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I

  will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were

  he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I

  will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue;

  go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

  That’s true, very true. Go, Tubal, and pay

  a police officer to arrest Antonio. Speak with him two weeks ahead of time. I

  will have the heart of Antonio if he forfeits. If he

  was not in Venice, I can make whatever deals I

  want. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue.

  Go, good Tubal. I’ll see you there, Tubal.

  Exeunt

  Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants

  PORTIA

  I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two

  Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,

  I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.

  There's something tells me, but it is not love,

  I would not lose you; and you know yourself,

  Hate counsels not in such a quality.

  But lest you should not understand me well,--

  And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,--

  I would detain you here some month or two

  Before you venture for me. I could teach you

  How to choose right, but I am then forsworn;

  So will I never be: so may you miss me;

  But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,

  That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

  They have o'erlook'd me and divided me;

  One half of me is yours, the other half yours,

  Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

  And so all yours. O, these naughty times

  Put bars between the owners and their rights!

  And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,

  Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

  I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time,

  To eke it and to draw it out in length,

  To stay you from election.

  I beg you, please wait a day or two

  Before you make your guess. If you choose wrong

  I will lose your company. So, wait awhile.

  There’s something tells me, but it’s not love,

  That I will not lose you, and you know yourself

  That I would not feel that way if I hated you.

  But just in case you don’t understand me well—

  And because girls aren’t really supposed to say what’s on our minds—

  I would like for you to stay here a month or two

  Before you take a chance to win me. I could tell you

  How to choose correctly, but I am sworn not to,

  So I won’t do that. So, you might lose me.

  But if you do, you’ll make me wish I’d done the wrong thing—

  That I had told you even though I swore I will not. Your eyes tempt me.

  They have looked me over and have divided me.

  One half of me is yours, and the other half is yours, too—

  The half that should be mine, but if it’s mine, then it’s yours,

  So it is all yours. But these awful times

  Put obstacles between the owners and their claim!

  And so, even so I am yours, I am not yours. If this proves to be the case

  Then it is because luck has gone bad, not because of me.

  I’m talking too much. It’s just to prolong time,

  To stretch it out and draw it out,

  And to keep you from making your choice.

  BASSANIO

  Let me choose

  For as I am, I live upon the rack.

  Let me choose.

  Not knowing like this is torturing me.

  PORTIA

  Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess

  What treason there is mingled with your love.

  Punished for your crime, Bassanio! Then do confess

  What betrayal in mixed in with your love.

  BASSANIO

  None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

  Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love:

  There may as well be amity and life

  'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

  Simply the ugly betrayal of not being able to trust

  I will even be able to enjoy you as my love.

  There is as much relation between

  Snow and fire as there is between betrayal and my love for you.

  PORTIA

  Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

  Where men enforced do speak anything.

  Ah, but I’m afraid you might be speaking like one who is being punished

  Who will say anything under the stress.

  BASSANIO

  Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.

  Promise you will let me live and I’ll confess the truth.

  PORTIA

  Well then, confess and live.

  Well, in that case, confess and live.

  BASSANIO

  'Confess' and 'love'

  Had been the very sum of my confession:

  O happy torment, when my torturer

  Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

  But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

  ‘Confess’ and ‘love’

  Is what my confession amounts to:

  Oh, what happy torture, when my tormenter

  Tells me the answers that set me free!

  But please let me take my chances with the trunks.

  PORTIA

  Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:

  If you do love me, you will find me out.

  Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.

  Let music sound while he doth make his choice;

  Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,

  Fad
ing in music: that the comparison

  May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream

  And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

  And what is music then? Then music is

  Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

  To a new-crowned monarch: such it is

  As are those dulcet sounds in break of day

  That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,

  And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,

  With no less presence, but with much more love,

  Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

  The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy

  To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice

  The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

  With bleared visages, come forth to view

  The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules!

  Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay

  I view the fight than thou that makest the fray.

  Well, let’s go then! I am locked inside one of them.

  If you love me, you will figure out which one.

  Nerissa and everybody else, stand back from him.

  Let music play while he makes his choice.

  Then, if he loses, he will find his swan-song

  In the music. To make it even more so

  And proper like a swan-song, my eyes will cry the tears to make a stream

  Which will be the watery death bed of the swan. But he might win.

  What music should we play in that case? That music

  Should be like the fanfare that loyal subjects bow

  To when a king is newly crowned. Just like

  The sweet music that plays at daybreak

  That a drowsy bridegroom hears

  When he wakes on his wedding day. Bassanio is walking toward the trunks

  with no less dignity but with much more love

  Than the young Hercules when he freed

  The virgin princess sacrificed at Troy

  From the sea monster. I’ll be like the princess

  And everyone else can be like wives at Troy

  Crying as we look on and watch to see

  The result of the challenge. Go, Hercules!

  If you live, I live. I feel much, much more distress

  Watching the struggle than you feel in making it.

  Music, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself

  SONG.

  Tell me where is fancy bred,

  Or in the heart, or in the head?

  How begot, how nourished?

  Reply, reply.

  It is engender'd in the eyes,

  With gazing fed; and fancy dies

  In the cradle where it lies.

  Let us all ring fancy's knell

  I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.

  Tell me where is love born,

  In the heart or in the head?

  How is it started and how is it fed?

  Answer. Answer.

  It starts in the eyes,

  And is fed with gazes, and love dies

  When it is still just an infant.

  Let us all ring bells to mourn love’s passing

  I’ll start—Ding, dong, bell.

  ALL

  Ding, dong, bell.

  Ding, dong, bell.

  BASSANIO

  So may the outward shows be least themselves:

  The world is still deceived with ornament.

  In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,

  But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,

  Obscures the show of evil? In religion,

  What damned error, but some sober brow

  Will bless it and approve it with a text,

  Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

  There is no vice so simple but assumes

  Some mark of virtue on his outward parts:

  How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

  As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins

  The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;

  Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;

  And these assume but valour's excrement

  To render them redoubted! Look on beauty,

  And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;

  Which therein works a miracle in nature,

  Making them lightest that wear most of it:

  So are those crisped snaky golden locks

  Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,

  Upon supposed fairness, often known

  To be the dowry of a second head,

  The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.

  Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

  To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

  Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,

  The seeming truth which cunning times put on

  To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

  Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

  Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

  'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,

  Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,

  Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;

  And here choose I; joy be the consequence!

  What shows on the outside does not reveal what is inside:

  The world is often deceived with pretty attire.

  In the court, people can plead not guilty when they are tainted and corrupt,

  And if they do in a pleasing voice

  May cover any signs of guilt. In religion,

  Some men can defend a sinful act by putting on a serious face

  And make it seem good by reading from the Bible,

  And in that way hide the sin with pretty words.

  There is no common sin that can’t be made to take on

  The appearance of seeming good by changing how it looks.

  How many cowards, whose courage is about as strong

  As a staircase made of sand, wear on their chins

  Beards like Hercules or Mars, the god of war,

  Even though if you look inside you will find them fearful?

  But they wear these beards as signs of strength

  To try to make people afraid of them! Look at beauty, too—

  And you will see it can be acquired with lots of makeup,

  Which works miracles on natural looks,

  Making those that wear it most seem promiscious.

  It’s the same thing with curly, blond hair—

  Which blows so playfully and spirited in the wind,

  And is supposed to make a woman seem more beautiful, but it is

  Often a wig made from the head of a woman

  Whose skull is in the grave.

  So outward beauty is but a golden shore

  Leading to a dangerous sea, like a beautiful scarf

  Can hide a dark woman. Plainly put—

  What seems to be true is often a cunning disguise

  To trap even the wisest. So because of this, you brilliant gold—

  Unpleasant food for Midas to eat—I won’t choose.

  And not the pale silver, either, which serves as a slave

  As coins for men to do business. But you, lead, that is of no real value

  And which looks more threatening than promising,

  And which moves me beyond eloquence—

  It is the one I choose. I hope I’m happy with the outcome.

  PORTIA

  [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,

  As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,

  And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,

  Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,

  In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.

  I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,

  For fear I surfeit.

  [Aside] All my other feelings are flying to the air—

  Doubtful thoughts and quickly embraced sadness,

  And fear that left me
shaking and awful jealousy—they all leave! Oh, I feel love,

  And I need to take things slowly and quiet my happiness,

  I need to contain my joy and try not to feel so much.

  I’m feeling too much happiness. I need to feel less

  Because I am afraid I feel too much.

  BASSANIO

  What find I here?

  What’s in here?

  Opening the leaden casket

  Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god

  Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?

  Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,

  Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,

  Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar

  Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs

  The painter plays the spider and hath woven

  A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,

  Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,--

  How could he see to do them? having made one,

  Methinks it should have power to steal both his

  And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far

  The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow

  In underprizing it, so far this shadow

  Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,

  The continent and summary of my fortune.

  Beautiful Portia’s picture! What God-like

  Artist made this picture that looks so much like her? Are the eyes moving?

  Or do they just seem to be moving when

  I move my eyes? Look are her open lips

  Parted with sweet breath—so sweet a way

  To part such sweet lips. Here in her hair

  The painter played like a spider and wove

  A golden mesh that can entrap the hearts of men

  Faster than small flies in cobwebs. But her eyes—

  How could he keep looking to paint them? After he painted the first,

  It seems it would have the power to make him stop seeing

  And unable to paint the second one. But look, how much

  The subject of the picture I praise outdoes its shadow

  And makes it seem small, and the picture is nowhere as beautiful

  As its subject. Here’s a paper