Portia

　　（To Ellen Terry）

　　I marvel¹ not Bassanio was so bold

　　To peril² all he had upon the lead，

　　Or that proud Aragon bent³ low his head

　　Or that Morocco's fiery⁴ 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 behold⁵.

　　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.