1 Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood.
2 Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes.
3 You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.
4 Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.
5 Good morrow, good lieutenant; I am sorry For your displeasure, but all will sure be well.
6 Well, God's above all, and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
7 Do not believe That from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence.
8 This fellow's of exceeding honesty, And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings.
9 So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.
10 I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd.
11 I am about it, but indeed, my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze, It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver'd.
12 If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money.
13 Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now, As if some planet had unwitted men, Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast, In opposition bloody.
14 My money is almost spent, I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains, and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice.
15 No, when light-wing'd toys Of feather'd Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and offic'd instruments, That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation.
16 Your officer, Iago, can inform you, While I spare speech, which something now offends me, Of all that I do know; nor know I aught By me that's said or done amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us.
17 But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively.
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