To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray. A SONG the whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell: I'll begin it- Ding, dong, bell. ALL. Ding, dong, bell. BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoubted. Look on beauty And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it; So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness often known To be the dowry of a second head- The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man; but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! PORTIA. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy! O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing. Make it less, For fear I surfeit. BASSANIO. [Opening the leaden casket] What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?