Signor Antonio, many a time and oft / In the Rialto you have rated me / About my moneys and my usances.
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cutthroat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine— And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears you need my help.
Go to, then! You come to me and you say,“Shylock, we would have moneys.” You say so!—
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold! Moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say, “Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” Or
Shall I bend low and in a bondman’s key With bated breath and whispering humbleness, say this: “Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurned me such a day; another time You called me ’dog’—and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys?”