_Gra_. Let me play the fool:[6] With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine, Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 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[7] and mantle like a standing pond: And do a wilful stillness entertain,[8] 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!_'[9] 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, 'twould almost damn those ears[10] 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, a while; I'll end my exhortation after dinner.[11] _Lor_. 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. _Gra_. Well, keep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. _Ant_. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.[12] _Gra_. Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried,[13] and a maid not vendible. [_Exeunt_ GRATIANO _and_ LORENZO. _Ant_. Is that any thing now? _Bas_. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them they are not worth the search. _Ant_. Well; tell me now, what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? _Bas_. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate, By something showing a more swelling port[14] Than my faint means would grant continuance. To you, Antonio, I owe the most in money and in love; And from your love I have a warranty To unburthen all my plots and purposes, How to get clear of all the debts I owe. _Ant_. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And, if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur'd My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.