Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains.
PORTIA
Go, draw aside the curtains and discoverThe several caskets to this noble prince.Now make your choice.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
The 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?
PORTIA
The one of them contains my picture, prince.If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see.I will survey the 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 allDo 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 estimationThou dost deserve enough, and yet enoughMay not extend so far as to the lady.And yet to be afeard of my deservingWere 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 comeTo kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.The Hyrcanianan ancient region south-east of the Caspian Sea, proverbial for its wilderness and fierce beasts. deserts and the vasty wildsOf wide Arabia are as throughfares nowFor princes to come view fair Portia.The watery kingdom, whose ambitious headSpets in the face of heaven, is no barTo stop the foreign spirits, but they comeAs o’er a brook to see fair Portia.One of these three contains her heavenly picture.Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnationTo think so base a thought. It were too grossTo rib her cereclothcloth treated with wax or another preservative, especially for wrapping a corpse. in the obscure grave.Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’dBeing ten times undervalued to tried gold?O sinful thought! Never so rich a gemWas set in worse than gold. They have in EnglandA coin that bears the figure of an angelAn English gold coin worth ten shillings.Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’dto carve or engrave upon a surface. upon;But here an angel in a golden bedLies all within. Deliver me the key.Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may.
PORTIA
There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,Then I am yours.
He unlocks the golden casket.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
O hell! what have we here?A carrion Death, within whose empty eyeThere is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
All that glisters is not gold,Often have you heard that told.Many a man his life hath soldBut 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.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO
Cold indeed and labour lost,Then farewell heat, and welcome frost.Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heartTo take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.
Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.
PORTIA
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.Let all of his complexion choose me so.