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Por.

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

Shy.

Is it so nominated in the bond?

Por.

It is not so express’d, but what of that?

’Twere good you do so much for charity.

Shy.

I cannot find it, ’tis not in the bond.

Por.

You, merchant, have you any thing to say?

Ant.

But little; I am arm’d and well prepar’d.

Give me your hand, Bassanio, fare you well.

Grieve not that I am fall’n to this for you;

For herein Fortune shows herself more kind

Than is her custom. It is still her use

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow

An age of poverty; from which ling’ring penance

Of such misery doth she cut me off.

Commend me to your honorable wife,

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end,

Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death;

And when the tale is told, bid her be judge

Whether Bassanio had not once a love.

Repent but you that you shall lose your friend,

And he repents not that he pays your debt;