Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks--
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful 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 awhile:
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
LORENZO 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.
GRATIANO Well, keep me company but two years moe,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
ANTONIO Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.
GRATIANO Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO]
ANTONIO Is that any thing now?
BASSANIO Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more
than any man in all Venice.
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