The Merchant of Venice

William Shakespeare

• Éditeur: Open Road Media
• Année: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781504062992
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Shakespeare Drama

A conflict between a nobleman and a moneylender drives this suspenseful comedy filled with twists and turns.

Bassanio, a Venetian nobleman and reckless spender, has found himself in financial straits, making it difficult for him to court the woman he loves, Portia. His wealthy friend who usually bails him out, Antonio, will not have funds available until his merchant ships come in. Borrowing from Shylock, the Jewish moneylender, and using Antonio as a guarantor, appears to be Bassanio's only option if he wants to win Portia's hand.

Shylock, at first reluctant to get involved with the anti-Semitic Antonio, finally offers to waive interest on the loan—if he can take a pound of Antonio's flesh should the money not be repaid on time. But when Bassanio's ships are reported lost at sea, danger awaits, in this masterpiece by the Bard, William Shakespeare.

Act II

SCENE I.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA’S house.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF MOROCCO and his train; PORTIA, NERISSA, and others attending

MOROCCO

Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadow’d 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 loved 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 lottery of my destiny

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:

But if my father had not scanted me

And hedged 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.

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 outstare 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 he 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 hand:

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 advised.

MOROCCO

Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

PORTIA

First, forward to the temple: after dinner

Your hazard shall be made.

MOROCCO

Good fortune then!

To make me blest or cursed’st among men.

Cornets, and exeunt

SCENE II.

Venice. A street.

Enter LAUNCELOT

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 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

incarnai; 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 yo...