And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away; Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was beset with shame and courtesy ; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it: Pardon me, good lady; Had you been there, I think, you would have begg'd Por. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house : Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I'll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband's bed: Know him I shall, I am well sure of it: Lie not a night from home; watch me, like Argus; If you do not, if I be left alone, Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, Ner. And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd, Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; Por. you Mark but that! Bass. Nay, but hear me; Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear, lord Por. Then you shall be his surety: Give him this; the doctor! Por. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio ; Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano; Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough: What! are we cuckolds, ere we have deserv'd it? Por. Speak not so grossly.-You are all amaz'd: Here is a letter, read it at your leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario: There you shall find, that Portia was the doctor; Nerissa there, her clerk: Lorenzo here Shall witness, I set forth as soon as you, And but e'en now return'd; I have not yet Enter'd my house.—Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect: unseal this letter soon; There you shall find, three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly: You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. Ant. I am dumb. you not? Ner. Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man. Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow; When I am absent then lie with my wife. Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life, and living; For here I read for certain, that my ships Are safely come to road. Por. How now, Lorenzo ? From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, Por. It is almost morning, Or a Sore-excessively, extremely, much. [Exeunt. End of The Merchant of Venice. |