I have told your Grace of what I purpose,
And, by our holy Sabbath, I have sworn
To have the due and penalty of my promise to pay.
If you deny it, let the danger light
On your city charter and your city's freedom.
You ask me why I would rather choose to have
A weight of dead flesh than to receive
Three thousand dollars. I won’t answer that,
Only to say I feel like it: have I answered you?
What if a rat troubles my house,
And I am happy to give ten thousand dollars
To have it captured? What, aren’t you answered yet?
There are some men that don’t love a dead pig;
Some that are crazy if they see a cat;
And others, when they hear the song of the bagpipe,
Cannot hold their urine, because sympathy,
Mistress of passion, persuades passion to the mood
Of what it likes or hates. Now, for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be given,
Why he can’t stand a dead pig;
Why he is afraid of a harmless, necessary cat;
Why he wets himself when he hears a wailing bagpipe,
Only that he must yield by force to such inevitable shame
As to offend, himself being offended;
So I can give no reason, nor will I,
More than I bear Antonio a deep-rooted hate
And a certain intense dislike, that I follow
A losing suit against him like this. Are you answered?
This is no answer, you unfeeling man,
To excuse the flowing of your cruelty.
I am not required to please you with my answer.
Do all men kill the things they don’t love?