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O sweet Portia,

Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words

That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

I freely told you all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins: I was a gentleman;

And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much I was a braggart: when I told you

My state was nothing, I should then have told you

That I was worse than nothing; for indeed

I have engag’d myself to a dear friend,

Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy,

To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady,

The paper as the body of my friend,

And every word in it a gaping wound

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?

Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit?

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,

From Lisbon, Barbary, and India,

And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks?

Sal.

Not one, my lord.

Besides, it should appear, that if he had

The present money to discharge the Jew,

He would not take it. Never did I know