Portia.
There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket.
Morocco.
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 grieved a heart
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.
[Exit with train.
Enter Prince of Arragon.
Portia.
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince;
If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.