Some god direct my judgment! Let me see–I will survey th’ inscriptions back again.

What says this leaden casket? ‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’

Must give — for what? for lead! hazard for lead? This casket threatens; men that hazard all

Do it in hope of fair advantages. A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;

I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue?

‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ As much as he deserves? Pause there, Morocco,

And weigh thy value with an even hand: If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady;

And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself.

As much as I deserve? Why that’s the lady! I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,

In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve.

What if I strayed no farther, but chose here? Let’s see once more this saying graved in gold:

‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’ Why that’s the lady! All the world desires her;

From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.

The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now

For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come

As o’er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture.

Is’t like that lead contains her? ‘Twere damnation To think so base a thought; it were too gross

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she’s immured,

Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel

Stamped in gold — but that’s insculped upon; But here an angel in a golden bed

Lies all within. Deliver me the key. Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!

Kim confesses to her friend (and sometimes-lover) Shanehat she has been in love with him for several years.

KIM: I wanted those moments – few and far between as they were… I wanted whatever time and affection you could give me. No matter what it cost me. I felt like you found comfort in me. And maybe I wasn’t your first choice, you know? But I was glad that I was somewhere on the list. I let it happen again and again, more times than I can even count.

You wanted to keep things casual, you wanted to keep me at arm’s length. It didn’t matter. I love you anyway. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you… and I love you. I love your kindness, and your strength. I love the way you can tell me what I’m thinking. I love the way you tell a story, drawing me in. I love you for all the times you convinced me, with a stupid joke, or even just a look… to stop taking myself so seriously and just enjoy my life. Nothing could ever make me regret the way I feel about you. What I feel for you isn’t a negative thing. It makes me better, it makes my life better. That’s what I’ve been trying to say: That love is never wrong.

CAPTAIN: Come in, and we’ll talk. I heard you out there listening. It is late, but we must come to some decision. Sit down. [Pause] I have been at the post office tonight to get my letters. From these it appears that you have been keeping back my mail, both coming and going. The consequence of which is that the loss of time has as good as destroyed the result I expected from my work. In consequence of all this I have intercepted letters addressed to you. It appears from these letters that for some time past you have been arraying my old friends against me by spreading reports about my mental condition. And you have succeeded in your efforts, for now not more than one person exists from the Colonel down to the cook, who believes that I am sane. Now these are the facts about my illness; my mind is sound, as you know, so that I can take care of my duties in the service as well as my responsibilities as a father; my feelings are more or less under my control, as my will has not been completely undermined; but you have gnawed and nibbled at it so that it will soon slip the cogs, and then the whole mechanism will slip and go smash. [Pause] I have worked and slaved for you, your child, your mother, your servants; I have sacrificed promotion and career; I have endured torture, flaggellation, sleeplessness, worry for your sake, until my hair has grown gray; and all that you might enjoy a life without care, and when you grew old, enjoy life over again in your child. This is the commonest kind of theft, the most brutal slavery. [Cries] I thought I was completing myself when you and I became one, and therefore you were allowed to rule, and I, the commander at the barracks and before the troops, became obedient to you, grew through you, looked up to you as to a more highly-gifted being, listened to you as if I had been your undeveloped child. You always had the advantage. You could hypnotize me when I was wide awake, so that I neither saw nor heard, but merely obeyed; you could give me a raw potato and make me imagine it was a peach; you could force me to admire your foolish caprices as though they were strokes of genius. You could have influenced me to crime, yes, even to mean, paltry deeds. Because you lacked intelligence, instead of carrying out my ideas you acted on your own judgment. But when at last I awoke, I realized that my honor had been corrupted and I wanted to blot out the memory by a gread deed, an achievement, a discovery, or an honorable suicide. I wanted to go to war, but was not permitted. It was then that I threw myself into science. And now when I was about to reach out my hand to gather in its fruits, you chop off my arm. Now I am dishonored and can live no longer, for a man cannot live without honor.

BACHELOR: To wed, or not to wed;–that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in a man to suffer
The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer;
Or fly to arms against a host of troubles,

And at the altar end them. To woo–to wed–
No more; and by this step to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand hopes and fears
The single suffer–’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To woo–to wed;–
To wed–perchance repent!–ay, there’s the rub;
For in that wedded state, what woes may come
When we have launched upon that untried sea
Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes celibacy of so long life;
For who would bear the quips and jeers of friends,
The husband’s pity, and the coquette’s scorn,
The vacant hearth, the solitary cell,
The unshared sorrow, and the void within,
When he himself might his redemption gain

With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun
To toil and plod over a barren heath;
But that the dread of something yet beyond–

The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No bachelor returns–puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus forethought does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And numberless flirtations, long pursued,

With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lose the name of marriage.

AMBER: Hi Bob! Uh, I never know what to say on these things…I hope you don’t mind me calling you! Before I left this morning, I wrote your number down so I could call you and give you my number. Its really easy to remember: its 555followed by 4321. Its like a countdown before a blast-off, one of my ex-boyfriends used to say. And he was really into phone sex! Oh! I guess I shouldn’t talk about ex-boyfriends, should I? Ummmmm… Well, that’s my number: 555-4321. You wont forget it will you? I hope not. I really want you to call me. Last night was very special to me. I never met anyone like you. I feel your really sensitive and sweet, and I want to see you again. I loved how you washed my hair in the shower this morning! Even my hairdresser isn’t that gentle when he does it, and hes gay! Oh! I didn’t mean to suggest you were gay, I just think your really strong and exciting, too! So call me, ok? I hope Im not being too pushy, I know some guys don’t like that, but I really want to see you again. (Pause). Okay, I gotta go. Call me, please? You really made a difference in my life. Bye!

[Greg is about to putt, but stops short.]

Hey, it all comes down to intentions. Intentions Johnny. Yours. Mine. The worlds? The fact of the matter is I’m glad you came John. Very. We’ve always been close. Two men each carrying out their respected father’s wishes. That’s more than just business acquaintances. That’s a connection. Sorry about the old man by the way. Damn shame. But enough business. The fact of the matter is your trip to Phoenix couldn’t have come at a better time. Heather and I just parted ways. Not much to tell. It all comes back to intentions John! Heather was always a bit self-conscious. Preoccupied with her looks. Always a great body. A very “hot” body. But for whose intentions? The fact of the matter is Johnny– somewhere she crossed the line. I mean–She wasn’t well. Psychologically. Between you and me? All she’d eat? Carrots. Carrots! Raw carrots John. That’s all she was eating. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Swear to God. Carrots. Even if we went out to eat, she’d throw down the menu and pull out a carrot. I didn’t have a wife. I had a rabbit. But that’s not all. It got worse. Listen I don’t know if you know what happens when all your diet consists of is carrots, especially in sun like this… the fact of the matter is Johnny: Heather turned orange. My wife. Her skin. My wife was orange. The carrots and the melanin or the keratin and this climate…? I don’t know Johnny, but when you come home and there’s something orange sitting on your couch watching Oprah and eating a carrot, and you can’t get to your beer in the refrigerator because it’s filled top to bottom with carrots, and everywhere you go you’re seeing carrots… the fact of the matter is Johnny and I’m trying like hell to quit saying “the fact of the matter is,” but the fact of the matter is– it gives you pause. What were her intentions John? What were her intentions for turning orange? Were they hers at all? Were they mine? Yours? The world’s? The questions are confounding. But we must believe in our answers. [Greg finally putts. He misses.] Goddamned son of a bitchin’ cocksucking bastards! [He breaks his putter.] Bastards! [A pause] Tell you what. I’m gonna take an eleven. [He picks up his ball.] The next hole has a ball washer! [He exits.]