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Modern English
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so sad: It’s exhausting to me; you say it’s exhausting to you; But how I got it, found it, or came to have it, What it’s made of, where it came from, I still don’t know; And this confusing sadness makes me so unclear, That I can barely recognize myself.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Your mind is focused on the ocean; There, where your ships with large sails, Like noblemen and rich merchants on the water, Or, like grand displays on the sea, Tower over the small traders, Who bow to them, showing them respect, As they sail past them with their sails spread.
Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad.
Believe me, sir, if I had such a venture at sea, The bigger part of my feelings would Be with my hopes abroad. I’d be constantly Watching the grass, trying to see where the wind blows, Studying maps for ports and piers and routes; And anything that might make me worried About my business would, without a doubt, Make me feel sad.
My wind cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great at sea might do. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanced would make me sad? But tell not me; I know, Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
The wind cooling my soup Would make me sick, when I thought About what harm a strong wind at sea might cause. I wouldn’t watch the hourglass run, But I’d think of shallow waters and sandbars, And see my wealthy ship stuck in the sand, Tilting so far down that her top is lower than her sides As she sinks to the bottom. If I went to church And saw the stone building, I’d immediately think of dangerous rocks, Which, if they touched my gentle ship’s side, Would scatter all her spices into the sea, Drench the wild waters with my silks, And, in a moment, my riches would be worth nothing. Should I think of this and not feel sad? But don’t tell me; I know, Antonio Is sad because he’s thinking about his business.
Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year: Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
Believe me, no: I’m actually grateful for it, My investments aren’t all in one place, Nor in one ship; nor is all my wealth Dependent on the success of this year’s trade: So my business doesn’t make me sad.
Why, then you are in love.
Then you must be in love.
Fie, fie!
Nonsense!
Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, And other of such vinegar aspect That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Not in love either? Then let’s just say you’re sad, Because you’re not happy: and it would be just as easy For you to laugh and jump around and say you’re happy, Because you’re not sad. Now, by two-faced Janus, Nature has made strange people in her time: Some who will always peek through their eyes And laugh like parrots at a piper, And others with such sour faces That they won’t smile, even if the joke is funny.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: We leave you now with better company.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble relative, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Goodbye: We leave you now with better company.
I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.
I would’ve stayed until I made you happy, If better friends hadn’t come to take my place.
Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you And you embrace the occasion to depart.
I value your friendship a lot. I suppose your business calls you And you’re taking the chance to leave.
Good morrow, my good lords.
Good morning, my lords.
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when? You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
Good sirs, when will we laugh? Tell me, when? You’re acting really strange: does it have to be like this?
We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.
We’ll make time to be here when you need us.
My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you: but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
My Lord Bassanio, since you’ve found Antonio, We’ll leave you now; but when it’s time for dinner, Please remember where we should meet.
I will not fail you.
I won’t forget you.
You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care: Believe me, you are marvellously changed.
You don’t look well, Signior Antonio; You care too much about the world: People lose the world when they worry too much about it: Trust me, you’ve changed a lot.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.
I see the world just as the world, Gratiano; A stage where everyone has to play a role, And mine is a sad one.
Let me play the fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio-- I love thee, and it is my love that speaks-- There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say ’I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!’ O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears, Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time: But fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile: I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.
Let me be the fool: Let old wrinkles come with laughter and joy, And let my liver warm up with wine Rather than my heart freeze with depressing sighs. Why should a man, whose blood still flows warm, Sit like his grandfather carved in stone? Sleep when he wakes, and sink into misery By being grumpy? I’ll tell you what, Antonio-- I love you, and it’s my love speaking-- There are men who look like a calm pond, And sit in stillness on purpose, Dressing themselves up as wise and serious, Like they’re saying ’I’m a great oracle, And when I speak, no one should interrupt!’ Oh my Antonio, I know men like this Who are thought to be wise just for saying nothing; But I’m sure that if they did speak, they’d almost ruin it, And anyone who listened would think they’re fools. I’ll tell you more about this another time: But don’t try to catch a fish with this sad bait, This foolish idea. Come, good Lorenzo. Farewell for now: I’ll finish my speech after dinner.
Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time: I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak.
Alright, we’ll leave you until dinner: I must be one of these silent wise men, Because Gratiano never lets me talk.
Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Fine, stick with me for two more years, And you won’t even recognize your own voice.
Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this gear.
Goodbye: I’ll become a chatterbox for this cause.
Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
Thanks, truly, because silence is only praised In the tongue of an old cow that’s dried up, and a maid who’s not for sale.
Is that any thing now?
Is that all there is to it?
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
Gratiano talks a lot, but says nothing, more Than any man in Venice. His arguments are like two Grains of wheat hidden in two bushels of chaff: you Could search all day and never find them, and even when you Do, they’re not worth the effort.
Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promised to tell me of?
Now, tell me, which lady is it To whom you swore that secret journey, The one you promised to tell me about today?
’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate, By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance: Nor do I now make moan to be abridged From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time something too prodigal Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love, And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
It’s not a secret to you, Antonio, How much I’ve ruined my fortune, By trying to live beyond my means, Showing off a lifestyle my resources can’t support: Nor am I complaining now about being cut back From such a high standard; my main concern Is to get out of the huge debts That my somewhat reckless behavior Has left me trapped in. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love, And from your love I have a guarantee To unload all my plans and intentions On how to get rid of the debts I owe.
I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assured, My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.
Please, good Bassanio, tell me what it is; And if it’s true, as you still do, That you live with honor, be sure, My money, my body, my very last resource, Are all yours to use as you need.
In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way with more advised watch, To find the other forth, and by adventuring both I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
In my school days, when I lost one arrow, I would shoot another just like it, With more care, trying to find the first one, And by trying both, I often found both. I tell this story from my childhood, Because what’s coming is completely innocent. I owe you a lot, and like a stubborn youth, That which I owe is already lost; but if you’re willing To shoot another arrow the same way As you did with the first, I’m sure, As I’ll watch the target, I’ll either find both Or bring your second shot back and thank you for the first.
You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have: Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.
You know me well, and here you’re just wasting time Trying to wrap my love in extra words; And without a doubt, you’re doing me more harm By doubting my total commitment Than if you had wasted all I have: Just tell me what you need me to do That I can do, and I’m ready for it: so, go ahead, speak.
In Belmont is a lady richly left; And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia: Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strand, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift, That I should questionless be fortunate!
In Belmont, there’s a lady with a great fortune; And she’s beautiful, even more so than that word, With incredible virtues: sometimes, through her eyes, I’ve received silent, yet powerful messages: Her name is Portia, as valuable As Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia: And the whole world knows her worth, As suitors from every corner of the earth Come seeking her, and her golden hair Falls around her like a golden fleece; Which makes her home in Belmont like Colchis’ shore, And many Jasons come in search of her. Oh, Antonio, if only I had the means To compete with any of them, I have a feeling that I would definitely be successful!
Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; Try what my credit can in Venice do: That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. Go, presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake.
You know that all my wealth is at sea; I don’t have money or resources To raise an immediate sum: so go ahead; Try what my credit can do in Venice: I’ll stretch it, even to the limit, To get you to Belmont, to fair Portia. Go now, find out where money is, and I’ll make no doubt In getting it for you, on my trust or for my sake.