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._
SALARINO._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._
SALANIO._Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,_The better part of my affections would_Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still_Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,_Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;_And every object that might make me fear_Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt_Would make me sad._
SALARINO._My wind, cooling my broth_Would blow me to an ague, when I thought_What harm a wind too great might do at sea._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 ribs_To kiss her burial. Should I go to church_And 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 thought_To think on this, and shall I lack the thought_That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?_But tell not me; I know Antonio_Is sad to think upon his merchandise.