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Enter Antonio.

Bass.

This is Signior Antonio.

Shy. [Aside.]

How like a fawning publican he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian;

But more, for that in low simplicity

He lends out money gratis, and brings down

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails

Even there where merchants most do congregate

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe

If I forgive him!

Bass.

Shylock, do you hear?

Shy.

I am debating of my present store,

And by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantly raise up the gross

Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

Will furnish me. But soft, how many months

Do you desire?

[To Antonio.]

Rest you fair, good signior,

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Ant.

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend,