The Merchant of Venice Act 2 Scene 7
Belmont. Portia's house.
The Original
Plain Modern English
Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains.
Portia
Go, draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.
Now make your choice.
Portia
Go and draw the curtains back, and show
the three chests to this noble prince.
(a curtain is drawn) Now make your choice.
Morocco
This first, of gold, who 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?
Morocco
This first one, of gold, carries this inscription:
'Whoever chooses me shall gain what many men desire.'
The second, silver, carries this promise:
'Whoever chooses me shall get as much as he deserves.'
This third, dull lead, with a warning just as blunt:
'Whoever chooses me must give and risk everything he has.'
How am I to know if I choose correctly?
Portia
The one of them contains my picture, prince.
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Portia
One of them contains my portrait, prince.
If you choose that one, then I am yours along with it.
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 beest 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 strayed no farther, 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.
From the four corners of the Earth they come
To kiss this shrine, this mortal, breathing saint.
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia.
The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spets in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits, but they come
As o'er a brook to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is 't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation
To think so base a thought. It were too gross
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she's immured,
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O, sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold, but that's insculped upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within.—Deliver me the key.
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may.
Morocco
May some god guide my judgement. Let me see.
I'll go over the inscriptions again.
What does this lead chest say?
'Whoever chooses me must give and risk everything he has.'
Must give — for what? For lead? Risk everything for lead?
This chest is making threats. Men who risk everything
do it hoping for a decent return.
A golden mind doesn't stoop to a display of rubbish.
So I'll neither give nor risk anything for lead.
What does the silver say, with its maidenly colour?
'Whoever chooses me shall get as much as he deserves.'
As much as he deserves — stop there, Morocco,
and weigh your worth on honest scales.
If you're valued at your own estimate,
you deserve a good deal. And yet a good deal
may not stretch as far as the lady.
And yet to have doubts about what I deserve
would just be selling myself short.
As much as I deserve — why, that's the lady!
I deserve her by birth, and by fortune,
and by my graces and my breeding —
but more than any of those, I deserve her by love.
What if I went no further and chose here?
Let's look once more at the saying cut into the gold:
'Whoever chooses me shall gain what many men desire.'
Why, that's the lady. The whole world wants her.
They come from the four corners of the earth
to kiss this shrine, this living, breathing saint.
The deserts of Hyrcania and the vast wastes
of Arabia are highways now
for princes coming to look at fair Portia.
The kingdom of the sea, whose ambitious crest
spits in heaven's face, is no obstacle
to stop foreign spirits; they come across it
as if it were a stream, to see fair Portia.
One of these three holds her heavenly portrait.
Is it likely lead contains her? It would be damnable
to think anything so low. It would be too coarse
even to enclose her shroud in, down in the dark of the grave.
Or shall I suppose she's walled up in silver,
which is worth ten times less than proven gold?
What a sinful thought. Never was so rich a jewel
set in anything worse than gold. In England they have
a coin with the figure of an angel
stamped in gold — but that's only engraved on the surface.
Here, an angel in a golden bed
lies entirely inside. — Give me the key.
This is my choice, and may I prosper by it. (He came in asking not to be judged by his outside, and he loses by judging by an outside. The scene never points this out; it simply lets him do it.)
Portia
There, take it, prince. And if my form lie there,
Then I am yours.
Portia
There, take it, prince. (handing him the key) And if my likeness lies in there,
then I'm yours.
Morocco opens the gold casket.
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 enscrolled.
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.
Morocco
Oh, hell. What's this?
A rotting skull, and in its empty eye socket
there's a written scroll. I'll read it out:
'All that glisters is not gold —
often you have heard that told. (The proverb was already old when Shakespeare used it, and 'glisters' — not 'glitters' — is what he wrote. It survives today in the wrong wording and detached from the skull that came with it.)
Many a man has sold his life
merely to look at my outside.
Gilded tombs have worms folded up inside them.
If you had been as wise as you were bold,
young in body but old in judgement,
you wouldn't be getting your answer on a scroll.
Farewell — your courtship has gone cold.'
Cold indeed, and all that effort wasted.
So — goodbye, warmth, and welcome, frost.
Portia, farewell. My heart is too heavy
for a long goodbye. This is how losers leave.
He exits, with his train.
Portia
A gentle riddance! Draw the curtains, go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
Portia
A nice riddance. Draw the curtains — go on.
Let everyone of his colouring choose the same way. (The third time she has framed him by his skin: before meeting him in 1.2, evasively to his face in 2.1, and now — the moment he is out of the room — as a wish that every man who looks like him should fail. 'Complexion' is the word he used in his very first line to her, asking her not to hold it against him.)
They exit.