Long and carefully the Prince of Morocco pondered, seeking to discover the hidden meaning that lay in each mysterious inscription. But at last his decision was made. “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” “Why, that’s the lady,” reflected the Prince. “All the world desires her; they come from the four corners of the earth to behold fair Portia. One of these three caskets contains her picture. Is it likely that lead contains her? That is too base a thought. Or shall I think she is immured in silver, when gold is ten times more valuable? Give me the key. I choose here.” “There, take it, Prince,” said Portia, “and if my picture is there, then I am yours.” The Prince of Morocco unlocked the golden casket. And what did he behold?... Not the fair image of the lovely Portia, but a grinning skull. In the empty eye there was a written scroll, and this is what it said: “All that glisters is not gold; Often you have 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 inscrolled. Fare you well; your suit is cold.” “Cold indeed; and labour lost: then farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!” sighed the Prince; and there was nothing left for him to do but to take a dignified departure. The next suitor to put in an appearance was the Prince of Arragon, but he was no more fortunate than the Prince of Morocco. His choice fell on the silver casket, but for all his reward he found the portrait of a blinking idiot. Portia gladly saw him depart, and at the same moment arrived a messenger to announce the coming of a young Venetian lord. Some instinct made Portia guess who was approaching, and she was not mistaken; it was indeed the lord Bassanio. Very different were the feelings with which Portia watched this suitor make his choice from those she had experienced on former occasions. She had even begged Bassanio to pause for a day or two, for if he chose wrongly she would lose his company. But Bassanio replied that he must choose at once, for as matters were now he lived upon the rack. His chief dread was that Portia might not care for him, but the lady soon comforted him on that point. Even if he lost the prize, he would have the consolation of knowing that he was really loved. Portia bade Nerissa and the rest stand all aloof, and ordered sweet music to sound while Bassanio made his choice. Like the Prince of Morocco and the Prince of Arragon, Bassanio stood long in reflection before the fated caskets. But, unlike these Princes, he made a happier choice. The gold and the silver he rejected, for he knew how often appearances were deceitful; but the humble lead, which rather threatened than promised anything, attracted his fancy. “Thou meagre lead, thy paleness moves me more than eloquence,” he said. “Here I choose; joy be the consequence!”