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Thou mak ' st thy knife keen; but no metal can, No, not the hangman ' s axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
GRATIANO. O, be thou damn ' d, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus ' d. Thou almost mak ' st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern ' d a wolf who, hang ' d for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou lay ' st in thy unhallow ' d dam, Infus ' d itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv ' d and ravenous.
SHYLOCK. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend ' st thy lungs to speak so loud; Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
DUKE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he?
NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you ' ll admit him.