Is this my favour? Am I crown'd with scorn? Then thus I manumit my slaved condition. Celia, but hear me execrate thy love. By Heaven, that once was conscious of my love; By all that is, that knows my all was thine, I will pursue with detestation; Thwart with outstretchèd[409] vehemence of hate, Thy wishèd Hymen! I will craze my brain, But I'll[410] dissever all. Thy hopes unite: What rage so violent as love turn'd spite! 120 _Enter_ RANDOLFO _and_ ANDREA, _with a supplication, reading._ _Ran._ _Humbly complaining, kissing the hands of your excellence, your poor orators_ RANDOLFO _and_ ANDREA _beseecheth, forbidding of the dishonour'd match of their niece_ CELIA, _widow, to their brother----_ O 'twill do; 'twill do; it cannot choose but do. _And._ What should one say?--what should one do now? Umph! If she do match with yon same wand'ring knight, She's but undone; her estimation, wealth---- _Jaco._ Nay, sir, her estimation's mounted up. She shall be ladied and sweet-madam'd now. 130 _Ran._ Be ladied? Ha! ha! O, could she but recall The honour'd port of her deceasèd love! But think whose wife she was! God wot no knight's, But one (that title off) was even a prince, A Sultan Solyman. Thrice was he made, In dangerous arms, Venice providetore. _And._ He was a merchant; but so bounteous, Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute, That naught was valued praiseful excellent, But in it was he most praiseful excellent. 140 _Jaco._ O, I shall ne'er forget how he went clothed. He would maintain 't a base ill-usèd fashion To bind a merchant to the sullen habit Of precise black; chiefly in Venice state, Where merchants gilt the top; And therefore should you have him pass the bridge Up the Rialto like a soldier (As still he stood a potestate at sea). _Ran._ In a black beaver felt, ash-colour plain, A Florentine cloth-of-silver jerkin, sleeves 150 White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock.[411] _Jaco._ French panes[412] embroider'd, goldsmith's work, O God! Methinks I see him now how he would walk; With what a jolly presence he would pace Round the Rialto.[413] Well, he's soon forgot; A straggling sir in his rich bed must sleep, Which if I cannot cross I'll curse and weep. Shall I be plain as truth? I love your sister: My education, birth, and wealth deserves her. I have no cross, no rub to stop my suit; 160 But Laverdure's a knight: that strikes all mute. _And._ Ay, there's the devil, she must be ladied now.