_Salar._ Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad, Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, 50 Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper; And other of such vinegar aspect, That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile, 55 Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. _Enter_ BASSANIO, LORENZO, _and_ GRATIANO. _Salan._ Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: We leave you now with better company. _Salar._ I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, 60 If worthier friends had not prevented me. _Ant._ Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you, And you embrace the occasion to depart. _Salar._ Good morrow, my good lords. 65 _Bass._ Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when? You grow exceeding strange: must it be so? _Salar._ We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours. [_Exeunt Salarino and Salanio._ _Lor._ My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you: but, at dinner-time, 70 I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. _Bass._ I will not fail you. _Gra._ You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care: 75 Believe me, you are marvellously changed. _Ant._ I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. _Gra._ Let me play the fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; 80 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 85 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, 90 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, 95 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: 100 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.