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  • Title: The Merchant of Venice (Quarto 1, 1600)
  • Editor: Janelle Jenstad

  • Copyright Janelle Jenstad. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Janelle Jenstad
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Merchant of Venice (Quarto 1, 1600)

    the Merchant of Venice.
    vvith ouer-wetherd ribbs and ragged sailes
    leane, rent, and beggerd by the strumpet wind?
    Enter Lorenzo.
    Sal. Heere comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter.
    Lor. Sweet freends, your patience for my long abode
    not I but my affaires haue made you waite:
    vvhen you shall please to play the theeues for wiues
    880Ile watch as long for you then: approch
    here dwels my father Iew. Howe whose within?
    Iessica aboue.
    Iess. Who are you? tell me for more certainty,
    Albeit Ile sweare that I doe know your tongue.
    885Lor. Lorenzo and thy loue.
    Iessica. Lorenzo certaine, and my loue indeed,
    for who loue I so much? and now who knowes
    but you Lorenzo whether I am yours?
    Lor. Heauen & thy thoughts are witnes that thou art.
    890Ies. Heere catch this casket, it is worth the paines,
    I am glad tis night you doe not looke on me,
    for I am much ashamde of my exchange:
    But loue is blinde, and louers cannot see
    The pretty follies that themselues commit,
    895for if they could, Cupid himselfe would blush
    to see me thus trans-formed to a boy.
    Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
    Ies. What, must I hold a candle to my shames,
    they in themselues goodsooth are too too light.
    900Why, tis an office of discouery loue,
    and I should be obscurd.
    Lor. So are you sweet
    euen in the louely garnish of a boy, but come at once,
    for the close night doth play the runaway,
    905and we are staid for at Bassanios feast.
    Ies. I will make fast the doores & guild my selfe
    with some mo ducats, and be with you straight.
    Gra. Now by my hoode a gentle, and no Iew.
    Lor. Beshrow me but I loue her hartilie,