_Bass._ So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, 75 But, being seasoned 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? 80 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; 85 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 purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, 90 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, 95 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 100 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 threatenest than dost promise aught, 105 Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I: joy be the consequence! _Por._ [_Aside_] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! 110 O love, be moderate; allay thy ecstasy; In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing: make it less, For fear I surfeit! _Bass._ What find I here? [_Opening the leaden casket._ Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god 115 Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 120 The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes,— How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his 125 And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. 130