by Oscar Wilde

(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.