The Merchant of Venice Act 2 Scene 1

Don't take against me for my colouring —

the dark uniform of the blazing sun,

whose neighbour I am and near relation. (His opening words are a defence of his skin, before anyone in the room has said a word about it. The audience has just heard Portia, one scene earlier, say she would rather he heard her confession than married her.)

Bring me the palest creature born in the north,

where the sun's fire barely melts the icicles,

and let us both be cut open, for your love,

to prove whose blood runs redder — his or mine. (Red blood was believed to show courage. He is offering to be cut to prove he is the braver man, in a play that will turn on a contract to cut a man open.)

I tell you, my lady, this face of mine

has frightened brave men. By my love I swear

the most admired young women of our country

have loved it too. I wouldn't change this colour

for anything — except to win your thoughts, my gentle queen.

In the matter of choosing, I'm not guided only

by the fussy preferences of a young woman's eyes.

Besides, the lottery my fate is tied to

denies me the right to choose at all.

But if my father hadn't restricted me

and fenced me in by his cleverness, so that I must give myself

as wife to whoever wins me by the method I described,

then you, renowned prince, would stand as good a chance

as any arrival I've laid eyes on so far

of winning my affection. (She does not say she likes him. She says she isn't led *only* by looks, and then hides behind her father's rules — and the audience already knows, from the previous scene, what her private view is.)

For that much, I thank you.

So please take me to the chests

and let me try my luck. By this sword

that killed the Shah of Persia and a Persian prince,

and won three battles against Sultan Suleiman,

I would out-stare the fiercest eyes alive,

outface the boldest heart on earth,

pull the suckling cubs away from the she-bear,

and jeer at the lion as he roars for his kill,

to win you, my lady. But — sadly —

if Hercules and his servant Lychas throw dice

to settle which is the better man, the higher score

may come up by chance in the weaker hand.

So Hercules is beaten by his own page —

and so may I, with blind Luck guiding me,

miss what a lesser man might get,

and die of grief.

You must take your chance,

and either not attempt the choice at all

or swear beforehand that if you choose wrong

you'll never afterwards speak to any woman

about marriage. So think carefully.

And I won't. Come — take me to my chance.

First, on to the chapel. After dinner

you shall take your gamble.

Good luck to me, then —

to make me the most blessed of men, or the most cursed.