Mor
. What have we here?
A carrion death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I'll read the writing.
"All that glitters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told:
"Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrol'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold."
Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
Then, farewell, heat; and welcome frost—Portia,
adieu! I have too griev'd a heart
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.