The Merchant of Venice, Act 2, Scene 7

Go, draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice.

Go, pull the curtains aside and show the separate caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice.

The 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?

The 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 one, dull lead, with a warning just as blunt: "Whoever chooses me must give and risk everything he owns." How will I know if I choose the right one?

The one of them contains my picture, prince. If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

One of them holds my portrait, prince. If you choose that one, then I am yours along with it.

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 farther, 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 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 immur’d 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 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.

May some god guide my judgment! Let me see. I'll go over the inscriptions again. What does this lead casket say? "Whoever chooses me must give and risk everything he owns." Must give — for what? For lead? Risk everything for lead! This casket makes threats. Men who risk everything do it hoping for good returns. A mind set on gold does not stoop to worthless-looking rubbish, so I'll neither give nor risk anything for lead. What does the silver say, with her virgin-white colour? "Whoever chooses me shall get as much as he deserves." As much as he deserves! Stop there, Morocco, and weigh your worth with a fair hand. If you're valued at your reputation, you deserve a great deal — and yet a great deal may not reach as far as this lady. And yet to have doubts about what I deserve would be a feeble way of running myself down. As much as I deserve! Why, that means the lady. I deserve her by my birth, and by my wealth, by my graces, and by my upbringing; but beyond all these, I deserve her by my love. What if I went no further, but chose here? Let me look once more at this saying engraved in gold: "Whoever chooses me shall gain what many men desire." Why, that's the lady — the whole world desires her. From the four corners of the earth they come to kiss this shrine, this living, breathing mortal saint. The deserts of Hyrcania and the vast wild stretches of broad Arabia are highways now for princes coming to see the fair Portia. The kingdom of water, whose towering head spits in heaven's face, is no barrier to stop these foreign spirits: they come as if crossing a stream to see the fair Portia. One of these three holds her heavenly portrait. Is it likely that lead holds her? It would be damnable to think anything so vile. It would be too coarse to use lead as a frame for her shroud in the dark grave. Or should I think she's shut up in silver, which is valued at a tenth of pure gold? What a sinful thought! Never was so rich a jewel set in anything less than gold. In England they have a coin with the figure of an angel stamped on the gold; but that's only engraved on the surface. Here an angel lies entirely inside, in a golden bed. Give me the key. Here is my choice, and may I prosper as I can.

There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours.

There, take it, prince, and if my likeness is inside, then I am yours.

O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.

Oh, hell! What do we have here? A rotting skull, and in its empty eye socket there is a written scroll. I'll read what it says.

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.

Not everything that glitters is gold; you have often heard that said. Many a man has sold his life just to look at my outside. Gilded tombs hold worms inside. If you had been as wise as you are bold, young in body and mature in judgment, your answer would not have been written on this scroll. Goodbye — your courtship has failed.

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.

Failed indeed, and my effort wasted. So farewell, warmth, and welcome, frost. Portia, goodbye! My heart is too grieved to make a long drawn-out farewell. This is how losers leave.

A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so.

A pleasant way to be rid of him. Close the curtains, go. Let everyone of his colouring choose the same way.