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There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a willful 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 a while,

I’ll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor.

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.

Gra.

Well, keep me company but two years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Ant.

Fare you well! I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

Gra.

Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable