Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well; We leave you now with better company. SALERIO. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occasion to depart. SALERIO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when. You grow exceeding strange; must it be so? SALERIO. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. BASSANIO. I will not fail you. GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano- A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool. 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 'tis 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. Fare you well; 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 anything now? BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid