How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valour’s excrement To render them redoubted!
How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
Take this same letter, And use thou all th’ endeavour of a man In speed to Padua; see thou render this Into my cousin’s hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice.
Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be render’d, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; Why he, a harmless necessary cat; Why he, a wauling bagpipe; but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him.
So please my lord the Duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods; I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter: Two things provided more, that, for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.