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Bass.

Good cheer, Antonio! what, man, courage yet!

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

Ant.

I am a tainted wether of the flock,

Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit

Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.

You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio,

Than to live still and write mine epitaph.

Enter Nerissa [dressed like a lawyer’s clerk].

Duke.

Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

Ner.

From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.

[Presenting a letter.]

Bass.

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

Shy.

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrout there.

Gra.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou mak’st thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

Shy.

No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

Gra.

O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog!

And for thy life let justice be accus’d.

Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith