The Merchant of Venice

Antonio – a merchant of Venice in melancholic mood

Bassanio – Antonio's friend; suitor to Portia

Gratiano, Salanio, Salerio, Salarino – friends of Antonio and Bassanio

Lorenzo – friend of Antonio and Bassanio, in love with Jessica

Portia – a rich heiress

Nerissa – Portia's waiting maid – in love with Gratiano

Balthazar – Portia's servant, who Portia later disguises herself as

Stephano – Nerissa's disguise as Balthazar's law clerk.

Shylock – a rich Jew, moneylender, father of Jessica

Jessica – daughter of Shylock, Lorenzo's girlfriend

Tubal – a Jew; Shylock's friend

Launcelot Gobbo – a servant to Shylock

Old Gobbo – father of Launcelot

Leonardo – slave to Bassanio

Duke of Venice – authority who presides over the case of Shylock's bond

Prince of Morocco – suitor to Portia

Prince of Arragon – suitor to Portia

Magnificoes of Venice, officers of the Court of Justice, gaoler, servants to Portia, and other attendants .

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean;There, where your argosies with portly sail,Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,Do overpeer the petty traffickers,That curtsy to them, do them reverence,As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,The better part of my affections wouldBe with my hopes abroad. I should be stillPlucking the grass, to know where sits the wind,Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads;And every object that might make me fearMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubtWould make me sad.

My wind cooling my brothWould blow me to an ague, when I thoughtWhat harm a wind too great at sea might do.I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,But I should think of shallows and of flats,And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,Vailing her high-top lower than her ribsTo kiss her burial. Should I go to churchAnd see the holy edifice of stone,And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,Would scatter all her spices on the stream,Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,And, in a word, but even now worth this,And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thoughtTo think on this, and shall I lack the thoughtThat such a thing bechanced would make me sad?But tell not me; I know, AntonioIs sad to think upon his merchandise.