Portia

（To Ellen Terry）

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold

To peril all he had upon the lead，

Or that proud Aragon bent low his head

Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold：

For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold

Which is more golden than the golden sun

No woman Veronese looked upon

Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.

Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield

The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned，

And would not let the laws of Venice yield

Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew -

O Portia！ take my heart： it is thy due：

I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.