Por.  It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established: 
’Twill be recorded for a precedent,
And many an error, by the same example,
Will rush into the state:  it cannot be.

Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!  O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!

    Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

    Shy. Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

    Por. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offer’d thee.

Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:  Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?  No, not for Venice.

Por. Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant’s heart.  Be merciful: 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound:  I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment:  by my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me:  I stay here on my bond.

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment.

Por. Why then, thus it is:  You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

    Shy. O noble judge!  O excellent young man!

Por.  For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

Shy.  ’Tis very true:  O wise and upright judge!  How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

    Por.  Therefore lay bare your bosom.

Shy.  Ay, his breast:  So says the bond; doth it not, noble judge?  “Nearest his heart:”  those are the very words.

Por.  It is so.  Are there balance here to weigh The flesh?

    Shy.  I have them ready.

Por.  Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

    Shy.  Is it so nominated in the bond?

Por.  It is not so express’d:  but what of that?  ’Twere good you do so much for charity.

    Shy.  I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond.

    Por.  Come, merchant, have you anything to say?

Ant.  But little:  I am arm’d and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio:  fare you well! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom:  it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honourable wife: 
Tell her the process of Antonio’s end;
Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death.