Ode to the Merchant of Venice

And the winner isn’t…

Sympathize with Antonio? Methinks I shan’t.
He’s the picture of virtue, selfless and noble,
but “such a wont-wit sadness makes of” him a fool,
and his ulterior motives make him seem cruel.
Then there’s Bassanio, financially a wreck,
whose opening line is, “a lady richly left.”
Shall empathy be his? Will I soften my heart?
How can I see past the black chain upon his neck?
Sympathize with Salarino? Methinks I won’t.
The pep-talking friend, who speaks in poetic form,
may portray words of wisdom, the biblical norm, but
lacks the backbone to steer a friend straight in the storm.
When looking at the dreamer, schemer, and beamer:
Solanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano,
can I will my heart’s breaking for Mr. Nostalgia,
the puffed up baboon, or the charismatic foe?
Sympathize with the father? Methinks I will not.
This immortalized villain of great proportions,
putting restriction on his daughter’s destiny,
while reducing her hand in this vile lottery.
Sweet Nerissa, an encourager of sorts; how far
will she go with her “acquaintance” with these lords?
That she could know them so well, and profess it so,
makes me wonder to what levels she would resort.
Sympathize with parade of fine men? Methinks not.
The Neapolitan Prince, in love with his colt;
the County Palatine, who frowns through his doubt;
or Le Bon, the “every man in no man” revolt.
Not to leave out the English baron, a proper
man’s picture, or the Scottish coward’s idle threats,
nor the Saxon sober wretch and drunken beast.
How could I empathize an ounce without regrets?
Sympathize with Shylock? Methinks I never could.
His heart is as hollow as dry-rotted driftwood.
Or rebellious Jessica, who robs her father blind,
and becomes the torchbearer, leading mankind.
Now enters the Moroccan prince, a gamblin’ man,
he’ll roll the dice but will not earn his victory,
nor will Arragon, who’s not as clever as can be.
Neither have left good impressions upon me.
Sympathize with the circus act? Methinks I can’t.
The clown, with his speaking in circles of riddles,
or Gobbo, who lost it o’er the last pass of hurdles;
the two don’t impress me, not even a little.
Here at the impasse, sits Portia in her distress;
she’s obedient and patient with her life’s mess.
Her wit did have me charmed upon the first act’s pass,
but in a second turned as dry as desert grass.
So here it is, my sympathy’s as cold as ice –
and I’m now “stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
***


[Direct and indirect quotes taken from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice]

by Jenifer DeBellis, October 2009