I tell thee what, Antonio, I love thee, and it is 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!
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, a while; I'll end my exhortation after dinner. Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner-time: I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. Well, keep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Last week, around 31, people downloaded books from my site - 9 people gave donations.