ACT 2
Scene 1

...before the day.
Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa, and their train.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burnished sun,
To whom I am a neighbor and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath feared the valiant; by my love I swear
The best regarded virgins of our clime
Have loved it too. I would not change this hue
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

...For my affection.
Even for that I thank you.
Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets
To try my fortune. By this scimitar
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince,
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the Earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
If Hercules and Lychas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand;
So is Alcides beaten by his page,
And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.

...Therefore be advised.
Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

...shall be made.
Good fortune then,
To make me blest—or cursed’st among men!
They exit.

Scene 7

...and gone tonight.
Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains.

...make your choice.
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?

...am yours withal.
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 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 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 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.

...take it, prince.
Handing him the key.

...I am yours.
Morocco opens the gold casket.
O hell! What have we here?
A carrion death within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing:
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 enscrolled.
Fare you well, your suit is cold.
Cold indeed and labor lost!
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost.
Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart
To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.
He exits, with his train.