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 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 inscroll’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.
[Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.]
PORTIA.
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE VIII. Venice. A street.
Enter Salarino and Solanio.