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 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, 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.

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.

Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible. Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo .

Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promised to tell me of?