The Merchant of Venice

by William Shakespeare

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad; It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to know myself.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.