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,

Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet

Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says

“No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as

aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy

heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” 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

Launcelet, 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 “Launcelet, 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

ruled 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.

Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew’s?

[_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.

Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?

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.

Be God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether

one Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [_Aside._] Mark me now, now will I

raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet?

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.

Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master

Launcelet.

Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir.

But I pray you, _ergo_, old man, _ergo_, I beseech you, talk you of

young Master Launcelet?

Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership.

_Ergo_, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, 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.

Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.

[_Aside._] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?

Do you know me, father?

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?

Do you not know me, father?

Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.

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.

Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Launcelet my boy.

Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your

blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your

child that shall be.

I cannot think you are my son.

I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, the Jew’s

man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

Her name is Margery, indeed. I’ll be sworn if thou be Launcelet, thou

art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard

hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my

fill-horse has on his tail.

It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward. I am sure he

had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him.

Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have

brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run

away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a

very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his

service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am

glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who

indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far

as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him,

father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the

farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the

liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

To him, father.

God bless your worship!

Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me?

Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy.

Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man, that would, sir, as my

father shall specify.

He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve.

Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire,

as my father shall specify.

His master and he (saving your worship’s reverence) are scarce

cater-cousins.

To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth

cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto

you.

I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and

my suit is—

In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall

know by this honest old man, and though I say it, though old man, yet

poor man, my father.

One speak for both. What would you?

Serve you, sir.

That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit.

Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,

And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment

To leave a rich Jew’s service to become

The follower of so poor a gentleman.

The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you,

sir: you have “the grace of God”, sir, and he hath “enough”.

Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son.

Take leave of thy old master, and inquire

My lodging out. [_To a Servant._] Give him a livery

More guarded than his fellows’; see it done.

Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my

head! [_Looking on his palm._] Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer

table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune;

go to, here’s a simple line of life. Here’s a small trifle of wives,

alas, fifteen wives is nothing; eleven widows and nine maids is a

simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to

be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple

’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.

Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.

I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this.

These things being bought and orderly bestow’d,

Return in haste, for I do feast tonight

My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go.

My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Where’s your master?

Yonder, sir, he walks.

Signior Bassanio!

Gratiano!

I have suit to you.

You have obtain’d it.

You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont.

Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano,

Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice,

Parts that become thee happily enough,

And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;

But where thou art not known, why there they show

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain

To allay with some cold drops of modesty

Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour

I be misconst’red in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes.

Signior Bassanio, hear me.

If I do not put on a sober habit,

Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say “amen”;

Use all the observance of civility

Like one well studied in a sad ostent

To please his grandam, never trust me more.

Well, we shall see your bearing.

Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me

By what we do tonight.

No, that were pity.

I would entreat you rather to put on

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

That purpose merriment. But fare you well,

I have some business.

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest,

But we will visit you at supper-time.