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ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.
GRATIANO. 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 ' tis 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. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile; I ' ll end my exhortation after dinner.
LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men,