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Lies all within. Deliver me the key; Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
PORTIA. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours.
[ He unlocks the golden casket.]
PRINCE OF 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 inscroll ' 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 with his train. Flourish of cornets.]
PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go. Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[ Exeunt.]