THE THREE CASKETS. [Abridged.] WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Portia. Now make your choice. Morocco. The first, of gold, which 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. Morocco. 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 be’st 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 stray’d no further, 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: ....... 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. 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. Arragon. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket ’t was I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you, and be gone. Portia. To these injunctions everyone doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. Arragon. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now To my heart’s hope!—Gold, silver, and base lead. Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. What says the golden chest? ha! let me see: Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. What many men desire!—That many may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits, And rank me with the barbarous multitude. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. And well said too: for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honorable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O, that estates, degrees, and offices Were not derived corruptly! and that clear honor Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover, that stand bare! How many be commanded, that command! How much low peasantry would then be glean’d From the true seed of honor! and how much honor Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new-varnish’d! Well, but to my choice: Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. I will assume desert.—Give me a key, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket. Portia. Too long a pause for that which you find there. Arragon. What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot, Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.— How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings! Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves. Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? Portia. T’ offend, and judge, are distinct offices, And of opposèd natures. Arragon. What is here? The fire seven times tried this: Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be, that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow’s bliss: There be fools alive, I wis, Silver’d o’er; and so was this. Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here: With one fool’s head I came to woo, But I go away with two.— Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. [Exeunt Arragon and Train. Enter Bassanio. Bassanio. So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season’d with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? . . . . . . . . . . There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts: How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stayers of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valor’s excrement, To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see ’t is purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crispèd snaky golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposèd fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulcher. Thus ornament is but the guilèd shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian feature; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on T’ entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee: Nor none of thee, thou stale and common drudge ’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meager lead, Which rather threatenest, than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I: Joy be the consequence! [Opening the leaden casket. ——What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit! ——Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune:— You that choose not by the view Chance as fair, and choose as true: Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleased with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn you where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss. Portia. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am: though, for myself alone, I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich; That, only to stand high on your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account: but the full sum of me Is sum of—something; which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpracticed: Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; then happier in this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, in that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself and what is mine to you and yours Is now converted: but now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. From “The Merchant of Venice.”