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Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath. How shall I know if I do choose the right?

POR. The one of them contains my picture, prince;

If you choose that, then I am yours withal. MOR. Some God direct my judgment! Let

me see,

I will survey the 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 grav'd 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 through-fares now,

For princes to come view fair Portia :
The wat❜ry kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits 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 immur'd,
Being ten times undervalued to try'd gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in Eng-

A coin, that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold: but that's insculp'd 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 !
POR. There, take it, prince, and if my form
lie there,

Then I am yours.

[He unlocks the golden casket.

MOR. 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 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. [Exit. POR. A gentle riddance:-Draw the cur

tains, go;

Let all of his complexion choose me so.



THERE is a history in all men's lives,
Figuring the nature of the times deceased:
The which observ'd, a man may prophecy,
With a near aim, of the main chance of things
As yet not come to life; which in their seeds,
And weak beginnings, lie intreasured.

Such things become the hatch and brood of time;
And, by the necessary form of this,

King Richard might create a perfect guess,
That great Northumberland, then false to him,
Would, of that seed, grow to a greater falseness;
Which should not find a ground to root upon,
Unless on you.

K. HENRY IV., PART II., A. 3, s. 1.


MAY these add to the number that may scald thee!

Let molten coin be thy damnation,

Thou disease of a friend, and not himself!
Has friendship such a faint and milky heart,

It turns in less than two nights? O you gods,
I feel my master's passion! This slave

Unto his honour, has my lord's meat in him;
Why should it thrive, and turn to nutriment,
When he is turn'd to poison?

O, may diseases only work upon't!

And, when he is sick to death, let not that part of nature

Which my lord paid for, be of any power
To expel sickness, but prolong his hour!

TIMON OF ATHENS, A. 3, s. 1.

SET down, set down your honourable load,-
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,—
Whilst I a while obsequiously lament
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.—
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son,
Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these

Lo, in these windows, that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes:--
O, cursed be the hand, that made these holes!
Cursed the heart, that had the heart to do it!
Cursed the blood, that let this blood from hence!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched by the death of thee,
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!

If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspéct

May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
And that be heir to his unhappiness!
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him,
Than I am made by my young lord, and thee!-
Come, now, toward Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul's to be interr'd there;
And still, as you are weary of the weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament king Henry's corse.

K. RICHARD III., A. 1, s. 2.


O, AY; as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed!
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense aches at thee.-'Would thou
had'st ne'er been born!

Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write whore upon? What committed?
Committed!-0 thou public commoner!
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.-What committed ?
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon

The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it.

OTHELLO, A. 4, s. 2.

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