I am arm’d and well prepar’d.
Give me your hand, Bassanio, fare you well.
Grieve not that I am fall’n 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 ling’ring penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honorable wife,
Tell her the process of Antonio’s end,
Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death;
And when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent but you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt;
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart.