William Shakespeare : Complete Collection (37 plays, 160 sonnets and 5 Poetry...). William Shakespeare

caskets to this noble prince.

      Now make your choice.

       Mor.

      This first, of gold, who this inscription bears,

      “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire”;

      The second, silver, which this promise carries,

      “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves”;

      This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,

      “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”

      How shall I know if I do choose the right?

       Por.

      The one of them contains my picture, Prince:

      If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

       Mor.

      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 beest 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 stray’d no farther, but chose here?

      Let’s see once more this saying grav’d 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 throughfares now

      For princes to come view fair Portia.

      The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head

      Spets 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 immur’d,

      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

      Stamp’d in gold, but that’s insculp’d 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!

       Por.

      There take it, Prince, and if my form lie there,

      Then I am yours.

       [He unlocks the golden casket.]

       Mor.

      O hell! what have we here?

      A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

      There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.

       [Reads.]

      “All that glisters is not gold,

      Often have you heard that told;

      Many a man his life hath sold

      But my outside to behold.

      Gilded [tombs] do worms infold.

      Had you been as wise as bold,

      Young in limbs, in judgment old,

      Your answer had not been inscroll’d.

      Fare you well, your suit is cold.”

      Cold indeed, and labor lost:

      Then farewell heat, and welcome frost!

      Portia, adieu. I have too griev’d a heart

      To take a tedious leave; thus losers part.

       Exit [with his Train].

       Por.

      A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.

      Let all of his complexion choose me so.

       Exeunt.

       ¶

[Scene VIII]

       Enter Salerio and Solanio.

       Sal.

      Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail,

      With him is Gratiano gone along;

      And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

       Sol.

      The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the Duke,

      Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

       Sal.

      He came too late, the ship was under sail,

      But there the Duke was given to understand

      That in a gondilo were seen together

      Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.

      Besides, Antonio certified the Duke

      They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

       Sol.

      I never heard a passion so confus’d,

      So strange, outrageous, and so variable

      As the dog Jew did utter in the streets.

      “My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

      Fled