Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
Ships are but boards, sailors but men.
Do all men kill the things they do not love?
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.
My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
These blessed candles of the night.
So shines a good deed... in a weary world.
By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?
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.
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!
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